


Ashes to Green Fields

by Misha Berry (MishaDerps)



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Adultery, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Auschwitz, Author has Taken some Liberties, Canon Jewish Character, Depression, Erik is a Father, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, F/M, Family, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Historical Accuracy, Holocaust, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kidnapping, Kurt is a Darling, Long-Ass Prologue, M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, No One Is a Happy Bunny, On Hiatus, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, Past Child Abuse, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Roma Culture, Sexual Content, Slurs, Sorry guys, This Author is well researched, Unplanned Pregnancy, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-08-13 23:49:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 89,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7990837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MishaDerps/pseuds/Misha%20Berry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. But from blankets of ash grow the greenest fields. Time scars all wounds, and the world keeps turning.</p><p>When Peter's twin sister returns from her travels in Europe, it sparks a new chapter in the lives of those who have taken residence at Xavier's School for Gifted Children. For better or for worse, but there's no stopping it once it's started.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue I: Erik and Marya part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, to start off, this is not the fic just yet, this is part of a long-ass prologue to put some things in context. There's a lot of historical stuff in here, mostly around the Holocaust, and I'll add some explanations at the end of the chapter in the notes. The prologue will be about 3-4 chapters, and split into two narratives. Be warned that these prologues, especially the first two chapters, will be particularly brutal. There are a lot of racial slurs. I have taken some liberties here and there in regards to the history, but I tried to keep it as accurate or as vague as I could.
> 
> I also tried to keep my depictions of Roma society and culture as accurate/vague as I could, but I had to take some liberties for plot reasons. I in no way intend to offend anyone.

Erik had long since become accustomed to the way people treated him in the camp. Schmidt’s personal staff were cold and distant, only interacting with him when he needed to be subdued or escorted or whatever else Schmidt needed them to do to him. Erik knew them by face by now, since they were a small, select group. Whenever he saw them approaching, he withered a little inside, knowing that he was about to be taken back to Schmidt and his horrible experiments and tests.

 

The regular Nazis paid him no mind at all; they knew he was protected by Schmidt and not to be killed or harmed in any way. Erik knew a few of them, but most had morphed into one faceless, Nazi blob. They mostly didn't interact with him at all.

 

The kapos, on the other hand, seemed to take Erik’s special status as an affront. Though they couldn't do anything to him physically, they often verbally assaulted him when he walked by. One or two even ventured to hit him with rocks or sticks if no guards were watching, but most were cowed by the overwhelming shadow that Schmidt cast. Few of them even knew that Schmidt existed; the name Mengele came to mind when they thought of Nazi doctors performing experiments on special prisoners, but they knew not to touch Erik.

 

One adventurous kapo had apparently gotten drunk on smuggled liquor and decided that Erik needed to be put in his place. He’d had a few of his boys hold Erik down while he lashed him. The next day the kapo had been publicly hanged, a warning to the others. Most stuck to name calling, and he’d earned himself a nickname among the kapos, as well as a few more ‘jovial’ Nazis.

 

“Hey Housepet! Better run along to find your master!”

 

“Where are you off to in such a hurry, Housepet? Off to play fetch with the master?”

 

“You shouldn’t wander so far, Housepet, or your master will put you on a leash.”

 

The other prisoners held a mixture of fear and respect for him. There were very few left with numbers as high as his, and certainly none so young. They noticed how he was untouchable to both the ruthless kapo’s and the terrifying Nazi guards. When he walked around, they scrambled out of his way, as though he would turn on them.

 

Sometimes, Erik imagined taking a random other prisoner and killing them, just because he could. No one would stop him, or punish him. Hell, Schmidt would probably be delighted, which was a good chunk of the reason that Erik didn't do it.

 

Despite his status, Erik wasn't a fool, and he regularly collected favours from others; the guards he was familiar with, some of the camp officials, a kapo here and there, and even other prisoners, when they had something to offer. He never knew when it might come in handy to have someone on his side.

 

Like today for example.

 

“You’re leaving,” Erik stated, watching Schmidt pack up his office. He stood in front of the big mahogany desk (only the best for Klaus Schmidt), back straight and shoulders squared, just like he’d been trained.

 

“Very astute, my boy,” Schmidt chuckled, digging through his files, “I’m going to set up an office in Austria, away from the front.” Schmidt grinned, circling around the desk to put a hand on Erik’s shoulder. They were eye to eye now, with Erik having grown from the small boy he’d been into a slightly gangling teenager.

 

“I’m going to send for you if I can,” Schmidt promised, “I’d bring you with me, but there’s a lot of red tape to be crossed first.” He squeezed Erik’s shoulder and Erik imagined beating that smug face in with the paperweight on the desk, “Don’t worry, I’m not abandoning you,” he said.

 

He stepped away from Erik and continued to bustle around his office, “I’ve arranged for you to be moved from the Sonderkommando to the Kanadakommando while I’m gone, starting next week. I know you’ve worked there for a long time, but I don't trust the men in charge of it not to simply throw you in with the others once the next ‘shift’ is up. The Kanadakommando will suit you well I think, lots of opportunity to get treats and goodies.” He grinned.

 

Placing Erik on the Sonderkommando had been Schmidt’s little ‘joke’, forcing Erik to aid in the destruction of his people for far longer than any of the others—owing to the fact the guards were under strict orders not to throw him into the gas chambers with the other prisoners in the Sonderkommando—and adding the cheerful phrase, “Out with the old and in with the new!”

 

Erik was going to relish in his death.

 

Forcing away the desire to gouge out Schmidt’s eyes for now, Erik watched him putter around neutrally, “How long will it take?” he asked.

 

“Hm, some months,” Schmidt said, “I’ve given orders for you not to be harmed in any way, and for your double rations to be protected, but I’d try to be on your best behaviour if I were you.” He spied Erik over the top his glasses like a concerned uncle, “I’m not going to be around to protect you if you misbehave.”

 

“I won't, sir.” The words tasted like bile on Erik’s tongue.

 

Schmidt smiled, pleased, “Good. Now, I have to finish packing. Why don't you run along? You have to get to work soon, don’t you?”

 

Erik turned and left the office, deliberately not looking at the attached lab where he’d spent many hours being poked and prodded and electrocuted and probed and sliced and all manner of unpleasant things. He walked out of the building and tried to calm his whirling thoughts.

 

Schmidt was leaving, which meant that his protection would erode; the question was how quickly and how much? His status would keep him from any immediate threat, and he had ‘friends’ and people who owed him favours, but would it be enough to last him until the Russians came knocking? If you had good ears and it was a quiet moment, you could hear cannonfire off in the distance. The Red Army would roll in, though there was no telling how soon.

 

Erik sighed and rubbed at his eyes; deciding not to think about it for now, he rushed off to the gates. Schmidt wasn’t gone yet, and if he missed his escort to Birkenau, he’d probably be whipped.

 

Most prisoners traveled between the camps a little bit, but Erik was constantly being carted between Auschwitz and Birkenau due to his position as a Prominent and Schmidt’s unique sense of humour. He would probably stay at Auschwitz after today, which Erik was grateful for; at Auschwitz you worked, at Birkenau you died.

 

He would also be glad to leave behind the wretched work of the Sonderkommando. Schmidt had initially wanted him to use his powers to yank the gold teeth from the poor souls who wound up in the gas chambers, but gold had no magnetic properties. Schmidt had been disappointed, but enough victims had metal teeth to keep Erik busy, fine tuning his powers to delicate tasks.

 

The Crematoria loomed in the distance, and Erik couldn't suppress the shiver he got every time he saw it. The chimneys were clear for now, but soon he and the other Sonderkommandos would get to work, busily prying bodies from the gas chambers and stuffing them into the ovens.

 

Erik had long since given up on God, but he always muttered a prayer silently to himself whenever he entered the building. The others didn't greet him, keeping their heads down as they shuffled off to work. They never spoke to each other, and especially not to Erik. The Sonderkommando were kept separate from other prisoners, and regularly gassed themselves, only to be replaced by new, fresh prisoners. Erik was the only one they kept alive at Schmidt’s influence.

 

Near the beginning, Erik fantasized about simply throwing himself into the electric fence, ending it all. Now he more often pictured throwing Schmidt into it.

 

The work was long and gruelling; this batch of Sonderkommandos were still pretty fresh, and they hadn't yet become entirely desensitized to the horror.

 

Erik had long since gotten over the fact that he was used to it.

 

Today he had the unfortunate honour of talking down his partner, who was working himself into hysterics.

 

“I can't do it,” the man whimpered in Polish, “They’re killing us like cattle, and we’re helping them. Our own people. I can't do it anymore!”

 

“Shut up!” Erik hissed; his Polish was heavily accented with German, but he was understandable. Schmidt had decided that he should be a polyglot, and he'd rigorously taught Erik Polish, French, Russian, Italian, English, and even Spanish, “If you freak out, you’ll only die that much quicker, and you’ll get me in trouble too.”

 

The man whined, nearly dropping the hook they were supposed to use to pry and drag bodies from the gas chamber to the ovens, “What does it matter? They’ll kill us all, and what have we done to stop it? We’re all going to die.”

 

Erik gripped his hook in his hand, wishing he could take a swing at this fool in front of him, “Be quiet! Keep working, or they’ll throw us in the gas chambers with the rest!”

 

Reluctantly, the other man started helping again. They pried individuals from the heaped mass by the door, where they had all trampled each other trying desperately to get out. As always, the smallest corpses were crushed under the bigger, stronger ones; some even had their skulls crushed.

 

They finished hauling out the last of them and sending them to the ovens. Erik’s partner helped him load the last body onto the elevator and then turned to Erik.

 

“My name is Vini,” he said, smiling at Erik. He turned and ran down the hallway. A few guards yelled at him and chased him, but Erik knew that the man—Vini—didn’t care. If they didn't shoot him dead, he was just going to throw himself into the electric fence.

 

Erik turned back to his work.

 

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, with everyone keeping their heads down after Vini’s little display. Erik’s escort back to Auschwitz wouldn't come for another hour, so he had some time to wander around. He wouldn't be harassed, that much he knew, but it was still unsettling to wander the camp on his own.

 

It was better than waiting by the gate the whole time, or by the crematoria.

 

Today, Erik wandered close to the ‘family camp’, the separate camp they had set up for Roma and Sinti prisoners. Erik wasn't exactly sure why, when they mixed Jews, politicals, and other prisoners altogether in the camp, but he wasn't about to chat about it with the Nazi guards. 

 

“You!” came a hushed voice, “You over there! House pet!”

 

Erik growled and turned, expecting to be accosted by a kapo, but to his surprise, it was a cluster of Roma on the other side of the fence; a man, a woman, and a child. They waved him over frantically, anxiously checking for guards.

 

Erik glanced around; no one seemed to be looking in their direction. Curious despite himself, Erik walked over to the fence. There was quite a distance between them, but they could still hear each other well enough.

 

“Please,” the man begged, eyes wide with terror, “Please save our daughter.”

 

Erik raised an eyebrow, “What makes you think I can do that?” This wasn't the first time that someone had tried to ask favours of him, owing to his untouchableness. Sometimes he could do things, and he liked having people owe him favours in return, but there was a limit to even his power.

 

“You’re special,” the man said, “I’ve seen you walk around. Even the kapos don’t touch you.” He glanced around, as if fearing the wrath of a kapo just by mentioning them, “And I’ve seen your magic.”

 

Erik frowned, “Magic?”

 

The man flapped his hands, “You move things with your mind. I’ve seen you! You do little tricks to entertain the Nazis,” he said, “Please, save our daughter!”

 

Erik glanced down at the child. A girl, he noticed right away, pretty underneath the encrusted dirt, with dark hair and light skin. Younger than him, or his age if she was just on the smaller side. Her wide, frightened brown eyes stared at him with a mixture of hope and desperation.

 

Erik sighed and shook his head, “I can’t do anything for you,” he said, “I’m sorry.”

 

Erik turned turned to walk away, but the man frantically dug through his shirt, “Please! I have gold!”

 

Erik stopped; gold was the most prized thing you could have in the camp. Erik had already had his own tooth pulled so he could trade it for a favour from one of the more trustworthy kapos.

 

He turned back to the little family, “How much gold?” he asked.

 

The man pulled out a small sack from his shirt, as did the woman. Erik stepped as close as he dared to the electric fence and tried to see how much gold was in them.

 

The man tipped the sack slightly and Erik heard jingling; the sacks were quite hefty looking, as much as anything looked hefty in the camps. Still, the two sacks together, if they were truly filled with gold, would certainly make any man in the camp a millionaire next to his fellow prisoners.

 

Erik considered his options carefully. He could simply walk away, leave the poor family to their fate, much like the rest, and the gold would be taken by the Nazis, as everything was. Or, Erik could take the gold and risk his neck for the girl. The gold would go a long way in keeping him alive and protected once Schmidt left, if he was smart about keeping the bulk of it hidden. There would probably be enough to keep himself and the girl comfortably well-off in the camp for at least a while.

 

The girl was skinny, but they were all skinny in the camp. Only some few kapos were hearty, and even then they were few. She was pretty, but the angular, starved look of her masked any real ‘feminine’ beauty. If he cut her hair off, she would pass for a very young boy.

 

Erik sighed, “Alright, I’ll help you.”

 

* * *

 

When Marya and her family were taken, her parents had lied to her. They told her that nothing bad would happen to them, that they would all get through it together, and they would all make it home soon. She knew that they were trying to protect her from the awful truth, but years later, she still felt a small stab of resentment for the empty platitudes that they had insisted were gospel. Like a naïve child, she had believed them right until she met Erik Lehnsherr.

 

In the years to come, Marya wouldn't be able to decide if Erik was the best or worst thing that had ever happened to her.

 

In the beginning, she viewed him as a kind of saviour. They had watched him wander through the camps, unmolested by even the nastiest of tormentors. When he was stopped, it was only to demand that he entertain the Nazi guards with his magic, twirling coins and nails and metal buttons in the air in ornate patterns to dazzle and amaze. Those who managed to get close enough noted his extremely low number for his age. He’d been in the camp for years, since he was a boy. Granted, he was not exactly a man, but to have such a low number meant that he had survived despite the odds against him.

 

So her father had hatched a plan to try and get his help to save her. They had smuggled in some gold, and he had managed to go around and ‘collect’ more gold from other prisoners, and even managed to somehow get gold from the outside smuggled in. In the end, they had enough gold to maybe get someone to help.

 

“Why can't we all get out with this gold?” Marya had asked, as they diligently hid the gold as best they could on their persons.

 

Her parents had looked at each other, “We are going to get out, we’ll collect more and follow you when we can, I promise,” her father said to her as her mother held her tightly and cried.

 

Another lie that she had swallowed rather than face the truth.

 

It had taken a few weeks, but finally they got their chance. They frantically called Erik Lehnsherr over and begged him for their help. For s second, it seemed like their plan would fail, and he would walk away, but they finally managed to convince him in the end.

 

“Alright, I'll help you,” he said, “Do you have a way to get her over?”

 

Her father nodded, “With a little of the gold, we can bribe a guard—”

 

Erik scowled, “No, don't trust a Nazi,” he said. He glanced around, then reached his hands out. The metal razor wire whined and shifted, lifting up and away from the muddy ground, “Take the gold and climb under,” he ordered her.

 

Marya shivered; his gaze was cold and calculating, though not cruel. Her parents shoved the sacks of gold into her hands and pushed her into the mud.

 

“Quickly!” Erik hissed. The razor wire sparked a little, straining under his hold.

 

Marya scrambled under the wire, praying that she didn't get snagged. One touch and it would be all over.

 

With one last wiggle, she was on the other side of the fences. Erik dropped the wires, which threw out sparks and twanged loudly.

 

“Shit. Move!” Erik grabbed her wrist and dragged her away. Marya turned and watched her mother and father fade into the distance.

 

It was the last she would ever see them.

 

Erik didn't stop dragging her along until they were huddled behind a barracks, “Show me the sacks,” he demanded, holding out a hand.

 

Marya handed them over; each of them were maybe the size of Erik’s palm. They were filled with all manner of gold things, from wrist and pocket watches to coins to gold teeth to just random bits of gold. Anything her family could get their hands on.

 

Erik inspected the contents of each bag. Satisfied with them, he shoved them into his shirt, then turned his gaze onto her. Marya resisted the urge to whimper under his scrutiny, his grey-green eyes judging her not so much like a piece of meat, but not exactly kindly either.

 

“We’ll pass you off as a boy,” he said finally, “I have someone who owes me a favour that can help.” He turned and looked around for any watchful eyes. When he saw none, he dug out his spoon from his pocket and waved his hand over it. In front of their eyes, it morphed from a spoon into a razor sharp edge.

 

Erik took a step towards her, causing her to leap back. He sighed and held up the tool, “We have to shear your hair. It makes it obvious you’re a girl.”

 

Marya raised a hand to her head. Unlike the Jewish prisoners, the Roma had their hair cut, but not shorn down. Marya still had a good few inches of hair, and she was reluctant to let go of what little she had left.

 

Erik must have guessed what she was thinking and growled. A look a fury crossed his face and he lunged, grabbing a fistful of her hair.

 

“Do you want to end up dead?” he hissed, shaking her by the hair, “Do you want to blow your cover and waste what your family did for you? Do you!?”

 

“N-no,” she whimpered, unable to stop the tears running down her cheeks.

 

“Then you’ll do as I say, when I say, understand?” he growled right into her ear. She whined and he twisted her to her knees. He lifted the tool and got to slicing off her hair.

 

Marya whimpered and sobbed as he worked, sniffling as the last of her hair fluttered down from her head. Erik wasn't gentle, but he was careful not to cut her with the tool either.

 

Finally, he stepped back and reshaped his tool into a spoon, “I’m not doing this to humiliate you, I’m doing this to save your life,” he said. He stepped around her and offered her his hand.

 

Marya sniffled again and wiped the tears from her eyes. She looked up at him; his expression was flat and neutral, but his eyes spoke of sympathy. She took his hand and he hauled her to her feet.

 

Erik inspected her again, “It’ll do for now. Hurry, we have to get back to the gate.”

 

Gripping her wrist tightly, he led them off towards the gate. Marya noticed how the other prisoners scrambled out of their way. Erik held his head high, like he was above them all.

 

She thought back to his tricks with metal and thought maybe he was.

 

They reached the gate just as a Nazi did. He spied Erik and grinned a greasy, slick smile, “Almost late Housepet. Got caught up with your little boyfriend?”

 

Erik didn’t say anything and let the man laugh at his own joke. When he finished, he took a longer look at Marya and narrowed his eyes.

 

“Who is this?” he asked, stepping closer, hand resting casually on his holstered pistol.

 

“He’s with me,” Erik said casually, “He’s my new assistant.”

 

The man laughed, his rotund gut bouncing with it. In a second, his laughter died and he leered menacingly over them. Marya bit back the urge to start crying.

 

“I can’t just let you take a prisoner out of the camp. Even you can't do that.” His voice was slightly wheezy, but the way he carried himself had even Erik taking a step back.

 

Erik glanced around, then reached into his shirt. He procured a gold pocket watch, “Look the other way, just this once,” he said, “I’ll fix it for tomorrow.”

 

The guard raised an eyebrow, but snatched the watch, “Come on, hurry up,” her grumbled, stuffing the watch in his pocket. Erik motioned Marya to follow him.

 

It was two mile walk from Birkenau to Auschwitz, and by the time they arrived, Marya’s feet ached. A few of the Nazi guards watched her suspiciously, but Erik plowed along, unfazed.

 

“Stick close to me. Keep you eyes down,” Erik said. Marya obeyed and followed close behind Erik, looking down at the small of his back rather than at anything or anyone else.

 

She was so close to him that she bumped into him when he abruptly stopped. He turned to glare at her, but didn't say anything. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her into a brick building.

 

They wound through a few hallways before coming into an office. There was a man at a desk, scribbling something into a large book. He hardly glanced up at them.

 

“What do  _ you _ want?” the man mumbled, using one spindly finger to push his glasses up his nose.

 

Erik tugged her forward by the arm and pushed it so that her number was showing to the man, “I need you to make this number safe,” he said.

 

The man looked up at her arm, but not at her, “A Gypsy? You must be joking,” he sneered.

 

Erik growled and the pens on the man’s desk rattled, “You owe me,” he said, leering over the man.

 

The man looked up at them finally. He sighed and sat back in his chair, taking his glasses off and taking out a handkerchief to clean them, “I suppose I do, but this is just too much. You can't just come in here and expect to have things go your way, Jew, even if you are a special one.”

 

Erik grumbled; he glanced over his shoulder at the door, “What if I make it worth your while?” he suggested.

 

The man raised a thin brow, “Whatever do you mean?” he asked smoothly, also glancing at the door.

 

Erik reached into his shirt and dug around in the sack, careful not to jingle anything. He pulled out five gold teeth and dropped them on the desk. The man leaned over to inspect them and reached to scoop them up. Erik slapped a hand over them before he could.

 

“Fix the number,” he demanded, “And I'll double this.”

 

The man glared, then smiled, “You Jews certainly know how to drive a hard bargain,” he said. Standing with a groan, he inspected Marya’s number again and went searching through his files. He pulled one out and started flipping through it. He ran his finger down the page until he found what he was looking for and then looked back up at them, “That’s a girl,” he accused, narrowing his eyes.

 

“Change it so it says she’s male, I’ll triple it,” Erik said, crossing his arms, “Or do you want me to go back and tell—”

 

“No no, I’ll change it,” the man said, cutting off whatever Erik was about to say. That ‘favour’ must have really been something, “I’ll change her to a boy in the records, and from a Gypsy to a political or something,” he chuckled to himself, “Or I could just switch her to a thief. Not much difference between the two.”

 

Marya bristled and was about to say something when Erik squeezed her wrist hard enough to make her wince. He glared her into silence and turned back to the man, “Can you maybe switch her with another prisoner? Maybe someone who’s died?”

 

“Maybe,” the man scratched his chin, “The numbers would have to be close.”

 

“We’ll stay and help you find one,” Erik said. The three of them began searching through the files for a suitable replacement for Marya.

 

About an hour and a half later, the man pulled out a file, “Ha, this will do,” he said, thumbing down the numbers, “Just switch this and this,” he went scratching away with his pen, “And that should pass at least a rudimentary inspection. Try not to draw attention to yourselves and you might live until we finally just kill the lot of you,” he giggled.

 

“Thank you,” Erik said tersely, pulling out more bits of gold. He dropped them on the desk and pulled Marya out of the office, “We weren’t here,” he said.

 

“I certainly didn't see you,” the man shrugged. He put away his files and went back to writing in the large book. He glanced up just as they turned the corner and leered at Marya. She shivered a little.

 

“Can we trust him?” she asked quietly.

 

“We can’t trust anyone,” Erik said, “And don't talk so softly, it’s too easy to tell that you’re a girl.”

 

Marya huffed and said, “Is this better?” in a lower pitch, rougher, imitating her father.

 

Erik groaned, “Just don’t speak around others if you can help it. And if you have to, do it quietly, or scratchy like you have a sore throat.”

 

“Like this?” she tried.

 

“Better, practice,” Erik said, “And whatever you do, stay close to me. I've already risked a lot helping you, and gave away a lot of gold. You keep your head down and do as I say, alright?”

 

“Alright,” Marya said. They walked along to some barracks and slipped inside. Erik stepped into a private room and motioned for Marya to follow. Usually private rooms were for kapos and Nazi’s only, but Erik was special, once again.

 

“How do you have so much?” she asked, “Even the Nazi’s listen to you.”

 

Erik scoffed, “They listen to Schmidt.” He said the name like a curse, “If it were up to them, I would have gone up the chimneys a long time ago.”

 

Erik took the sacks of gold out of his shirt and pulled a metal box out from under his bed (when was the last time Marya had seen a real bed?). It had no obvious latches or openings, but Erik simply waved his hand and a seam formed and popped open. Inside were all manner of things; a few spoons, cigarettes, some cloth strips. Erik tucked the gold into the box and took out two cigarettes, offering her one. She took it and he pulled out some matches to light them.

 

Lighting the cigarettes, he flicked away the burnt match and stowed the rest. He closed the box and shoved it back under his bed. He actually pulled some floorboards aside and shoved it down into the hole.

 

Marya took a long drag of her cigarette, “How do you do that?” she asked.

 

“Do what?” Erik asked, sitting up on his bed.

 

“That magic you do,” she waved her hand, “I didn't know there still was magic like that in the world.”

 

“What magic? You mean what I do with metal?” Erik asked, flicking away his ash, “I don't think I'd call it magic.”

 

“What would you call it?” Marya asked, scooting a little closer to Erik, away from the door.

 

Erik shrugged, “No idea. It just . . . it feels right,” he said, looking down at the floor intensely. She was coming to understand that he just looked intense all the time.

 

“Is it only metal?” she asked, curious now.

 

“Anything with magnetic properties, yeah,” he said, “So some metals I can’t manipulate, but most I can. I can even screw with compasses and magnetic dials.”

 

“Interesting,” Marya said, trying to smile up at him. He only raised an eyebrow at her and finished his cigarette.

 

“We should sleep,” he said, swiping away the ash, “We missed dinner anyway.”

 

Marya’s stomach growled, “How can you miss dinner in a place like this?” she asked. Food was everything in this hell, even gold couldn't compare. The Nazis fed them only enough to slowly starve to death.

 

Erik made a dismissive noise and went digging around under his bed again. He pulled out some bread and tossed it to her, which she immediately began devouring, “I’m special, remember? They keep me well fed.”

 

Marya grunted around her mouthful of bread—her mother would be appalled by her lack of manners—before swallowing, “Is it because of your power?” she asked.

 

Erik nodded and she hummed, “I wish I had powers,” she said, chomping down another mouthful.

 

Erik scowled at her, “No, you don’t,” he growled. He swung his legs up on the bed and turned his back to her.

 

Fearing angering him more, Marya ate in silence and then curled up on the floor. The Polish night descended over them and she fought back tears, finally processing the day's events. While she was glad that her father’s plan had worked and she now had a protector, she missed her parents terribly, and had no idea when she might see them again, or even if she would see them again. People died all the time here, and while her parents were healthy and strong, that could change very quickly.

 

She was just drifting off to sleep when she felt something drape over her. She gripped it in one hand; a threadbare blanket, Erik’s threadbare blanket from his bed. Marya curled it around her and tried to sleep.

 

* * *

 

The week went on and Marya tried not to be skittish, though it was hard. She stuck next to Erik all day, aside from when he went into the crematoria. She might have protested being left alone, but she really didn't want to go into that place at all. So she kept her head down and hid from the Nazis as best she could. Once or twice she went by the Roma camp, trying to catch a glimpse of her mother and father, but to no avail. In fact the camp seemed extremely empty of people, even though there were supposedly a little less than three thousand people in the camp. She didn't stay long to investigate and bolted back to her hidey-hole before anyone could come across her.

 

When Erik found her at the end of the day, he looked the same as he always did, but there was a tiredness in his eyes that made Marya curious. She didn't say anything though, and just followed along behind him.

 

Their Nazi escort was waiting for them by the gates, “Well hello Housepet,” he greeted, “And the little Flea,” he said with that slick grin of his. She had become known as ‘Flea’ to many of the Nazis and kapos in the short time she'd been with Erik, owing to how she clung to him ‘like a flea on a house pet’.

 

It rankled her a little, but she squashed down on her anger. It would do her no good to draw any more attention to herself.

 

The Nazi lit up a cigarette as they walked, “Did you hear about the Gypsies?” he questioned casually, and Marya’s blood went cold, “They liquidated the whole camp today. Thousands of ‘em.” He chuckled, “Watched ‘em go by for a bit. Some of ‘em were as black as Niggers.” He laughed at his own joke.

 

Erik reached for her and gripped her wrist hard enough to hurt. She hadn’t realized how close she was to launching herself at the man until he did.

 

She didn't know if she was grateful for it. All she wanted was to kill that damn Nazi bastard.

 

* * *

 

They stayed relatively safe for a while. Erik switched jobs and now worked at the train platforms, taking luggage and items from new arrivals to the camp. It allowed him to smuggle more things into the camp, and it was something that Marya was able to follow him to. So they both worked and smuggled food and things back into the camp, often to trade for favours. The Nazis only spoke in gold, but the other prisoners would gladly take whatever else.

 

It took some bribing, but Erik managed to secure that Marya would be as untouchable as he was. Though Schmidt had been gone for nearly two months, his shadow lingered, and they mostly had free reign of the camp, so long as they did what they were told. It wouldn't last forever, but with the distant rumble of the Red Army getting closer every day, it didn't need to.

 

“Germany is losing the war,” Erik remarked one night as they drank their their supper of thin gruel.

 

Marya scoffed, “Good,” she said, “I hope the Russians kill every last German.”

 

Erik raised a brow at her, “You know  _ I’m _ German, right?”

 

Marya faltered, “You’re Jewish,” she said, “You’re not the same as them.”

 

Erik scowled at her, “I’m Jewish  _ and _ German. Being one doesn't exclude me from being the other.”

 

He sounded as though he was about to lose his temper, so she wisely decided to keep quiet. Erik was never cruel to her, but he wasn’t kind either. If she stepped out of line with him, he would punish her, mostly by yelling, but she had a bruise or two from when he got really angry with her.

 

Still, they had formed a kind of comradery over the months, and looked out for one another. They needed to, otherwise they would probably have both died by now.

 

It happened that, six months after Marya had escaped death, in the dead of winter, the Nazis finally got skittish enough to evacuate the camp. They debated on whether or not to go along, or stay behind and wait for the Russians.

 

“We’re both still strong enough to probably survive wherever they're taking everyone,” Marya said, sitting on Erik's bed as he paced around.

 

“We don't know  _ where _ we’re going to be taken,” Erik countered, “The Russians will be here within the week, at best. We could survive staying as well.”

 

“We don't know that the Russians will even come this way,” Marya protested.

 

Erik growled, “So we’ll pack up some things and leave the camp on our own once the Nazis are gone,” he hissed. Marya huffed and crossed her arms, knowing that he wouldn't be budged, but none too happy about it.

 

“Men,” she grumbled to herself, “Always think they know everything.”

 

In the end, they stayed in the camp when it was evacuated, hiding in Schmidt’s old office with the meagre supplies they had managed to scrape up. It was cold, now that the heat had been turned off, but they managed to pile in a few blankets.

 

They ate through their food supplies in three days, and when Erik went out to search for more, he came back shivering and bloody, with only some potato skins to show for it.

 

“The whole place is a wreck,” he said, grabbing several blankets and wrapping himself up, “Everyone’s killing each other over the barest scraps.”

 

Marya shivered, only partially with the cold, “What do you think the others are doing?” she asked, “The ones who evacuated?”

 

Erik shrugged, “Shot, probably.”

 

* * *

 

The Russians arrived five days after the evacuation. They wandered through the camp in abject horror, standing around the trenches piled high with bodies and unsure of what to do with the sick and starving prisoners that had been left behind. Erik and Marya ventured out to meet them once they were sure that they wouldn't be shot.

 

Erik walked right up to a Russian soldier, “We need something to eat,” he said in Russian, though his accent butchered it a little.

 

“What happened here?” the soldier asked, looking around them. Off to their right, a corpse lay in the snow where it had fallen.

 

“Hell,” Erik replied, “Do you have any food?” he asked.

 

The soldier dug through his rucksack and pulled out half a bar of chocolate. Erik grimaced and handed the whole thing to Marya, “Hate chocolate,” he grumbled.

 

Marya paid him no mind and tore into the bitter sweetness; if he didn't want any, that was his loss.

 

* * *

 

Though the Russians liberating the camp had been joyous at the time, the celebration quickly waned. Most of the soldiers moved on, with a few staying to set up a base. They had shared their food with the inmates when they came, but now left them to their own devices. Erik, ever resourceful, went to the warehouses where the Nazis had stored all of the pilfered clothing from the prisoners of the camp. He found some boots and some winter coats for the two of them, and even managed to find some extra coins sewn into clothing.

 

“No one else is going to use it,” Erik had said when Marya protested.

 

Marya huffed, but shoved a furry hat onto her shaved head. The Polish winter was especially cold this year, and the clothing made her feel like a real human being for the first time in what felt like years.

 

They packed up what they could into Erik’s box, mostly food begged from Russian soldiers, and left the camp, passing under the arched gates that proclaimed, ‘Work Makes You Free’.

 

Marya scoffed and spat at the metal, causing Erik to chuckle a little.

 

“Do we have any idea where we’re going?” Marya asked as they approached Oświęcim, the village which was nearby.

 

“There are a few villagers I know,” Erik said, “And we still have some gold. We can pay for a decent meal and some beds for a night.”

 

Marya scowled, “And after that?” she prompted.

 

Erik looked ahead, putting one foot in front of the other, “I’m going to find Klaus Schmidt and end his miserable life,” he proclaimed.

 

The topic of Schmidt was a common one, with Erik vowing his slow, painful murder almost every other breath. Marya had tolerated these in the camp because she herself had felt the need for vengeance, and Erik’s gruesome imaginings had given her a little comfort in the dark nights. Now, she felt exasperated by his bloodlust.

 

“So I suppose we just  _ walk _ to Austria, then,” she snapped. He turned to reprimand her, but she cut him off, “Don't start with me, we’re not in the camp anymore.”

 

A look of fury crossed Erik’s face briefly, but it gave way to astonishment. He glanced behind them and muttered something under his breath, like he was only now realizing that they were free. He glanced back at Marya, and for the first time, he smiled at her.

 

“We’re not in the camp anymore,” he repeated.

 

Marya’s heart clenched, and she suddenly had the same epiphany; they weren't in the camp anymore, they were free. She smiled back at him and suddenly they were both smiling and laughing, tears pouring down their faces. They laughed so hysterically that they had to stop on the side of the road and sit in the ditch for a while. The snow bit at them, but they didn't care.

 

They were free.

 

They had  _ survived _ .

 

Eventually, they collected themselves and continued into town in silence. They had survived, but both of their entire families had not.

 

* * *

 

Erik was serious about his ‘head for Austria and kill Schmidt’ plan, and for lack of any better options, Marya followed him.

 

The first months were tough, with the hard winter over a war torn countryside making food and hospitality in short supply. More often than not, they were turned away. No one wanted anything to do with two skinny Auschwitz survivors.

 

Worse than that was when they encountered more Red soldiers. Though the soldiers who liberated them had shared their food and supplies when they could, it seemed the majority were not quite as generous, especially when it came to women. It wasn't uncommon to hear that a woman had been raped, sometimes to death, by Russian soldiers.

 

They had encountered one such horror scene on the road as they travelled south. The body of a woman, laying face up in the ditch, naked, legs spread and thighs bruised and bloody, abandoned without a care. Marya sobbed at the sight, but Erik only sighed.

 

“There isn't anything we can do about it,” he said, but he still trudged into the ditch to maneuver the woman’s cold, lifeless body back into her dress, giving her at least some dignity in death.

 

They were near the border of Czechoslovakia when Marya herself was nearly set upon by a Red soldier.

 

They had stopped for the day at an inn, where the owners, a kindly old ‘Good Christian’ couple had graciously offered them a hot meal and some beds for the night. They insisted that they house the two of them for free, but Marya knew that Erik would simply ‘misplace’ a few pieces of gold when they finally left. He was like that.

 

The old lady had an old bicycle that she let Marya borrow when she’d asked about it. She hadn't ridden a bicycle in years, and was ecstatic to ride again. The wind in her slowly regrowing hair felt like heaven, and she hadn’t felt freedom like this since before the war.

 

Marya was only biking up and down the dirt road, feeling the bumps shake and rattle her, but enjoying them. Her favourite part was coming up the small hill and then riding back down it.

 

When she crested the top of the hill again, she came face to face with a man; a boy really, maybe her age. But he had the same harrowed, war-weary look that she was coming to recognize on all soldiers. Their eyes met and Marya felt fear lance through her, curling coldly in the pit of her gut.

 

Before she could turn and ride away, the boy lunged at her, tackling her off of the bicycle to the ground. She screamed, but he didn’t react, filthy hands tearing at her dress, knees digging into her thighs to hold them open.

 

“I haven’t been with a woman in so long,” he groaned in Russian (Erik had taught her enough to get by), eyes frantic and fevered, “Just hold still, let me!”

 

“No!” Marya screamed, trying to fight him off. He ripped the front of her dress, exposing her breasts. She screamed, but they were too far away from anyone to be heard.

 

He grabbed her throat, pressing his weight onto his hand and choking her. She gagged, clawing at his arms and trying to get at his face. He ducked out of the way and slid a hand up the skirt of her ruined dress, pressing his fingers roughly against her. Marya thrashed, trying to get away.

 

Marya thrust her hands through the dirt, trying to find a rock, a stick, anything to use against this creature on top of her. Her fingers brushed against something, a stick, and she grabbed hold of it and started stabbing it like a knife. It glanced off of his shabby hat a few times, causing him to look up. Her next swing scraped against his forehead before digging into his eye socket. Blood and fluid spurted over her naked breasts and face.

 

The boy recoiled, howling in pain. Marya wasted no time in getting to her feet and clambering onto the fallen bicycle. She pushed off and sped down the hill, away from the terrible monster at the top, uncaring about her ruined dress.

 

There was a loud crack of gunfire and a sharp sting on her shoulder. Marya sobbed and pumped her leg as hard as she could, the wind watering her eyes. Another crack and the dirt behind her back tire sprayed at her back. She didn’t stop until she reached the inn.

 

Nearly crashing into the side of the building, she discarded the bike and ran into the side, tears streaming down her face. She slammed inside and locked the door behind her. The crashing brought the attention of the little old woman who ran the inn with her husband. She cried out when she laid eyes on Marya, rushing over as fast as her withered little legs could carry her.

 

“My dear!” she cried, grabbing the ripped folds of her dress and trying to cover her, “What happened?”

 

Marya, breathing heavily, only collapsed into hysterical sobs, falling to her knees and clinging to the old woman’s apron, burying her face into it. The old woman stroked her hair and cooed, trying to comfort her.

 

A banging on the door caused her to jump, “I need a doctor! I fell from a tree and took my eye out!”

 

Marya’s blood went cold; it was the man from the hill.

 

Feeling her tense and just  _ knowing _ there was something wrong, the old woman shouted back in broken Russian, “No doctor! Go away!”

 

“Open up you Polack bitch!” he shouted, slamming into the door, “Open up or I’ll burn the whole place down!”

 

Erik and the old man came into the entryway, “What’s going on?” the old man asked, looking confused.

 

Erik glanced down at Marya and at once understood. Searing hot fury shone in his eyes, and he stomped towards the door. The old woman shouted in Polish for him to stop, but Marya just stuck her face back into the folds of her dress. He unlocked the door and shoved, pushing the man backwards with the force of it.

 

There was a scuffling sound and then a scream, and then the scuffling was further away. A gunshot, another scream, and then silence. Exhausted from shock, Marya blacked out.

 

When she asked about it later, the little old lady had plenty to say about what happened, “I’ve never seen anything like it!” she exclaimed, stirring the thin potato soup she’d managed to pull together for dinner, “That boy of yours flew onto that scoundrel like something possessed! He pushed him down the steps and just laid into him. I thought he might simply beat him to death, but somehow, the gun went off and shot the soldier through the neck. At that range, it should have killed Erik!”

 

Marya could guess what had really happened, but said nothing, even though the woman swore she saw the Russian reaching for the gun and not Erik.

 

They stayed for a week after, Marya having come down with an illness after her shock. Erik was disappointed that they couldn’t keep moving, but he didn’t say anything about it. The couple were gracious enough to share their beds and food, even though there was little to be had. Erik finally convinced them to take some of the gold they had in exchange for their hospitality.

 

On the fifth day, a troupe of Red Army soldiers came by. Marya hid inside, but she could hear from the window a conversation between the old man and a Russian soldier who stopped to chat for a second.

 

“Have you see a man by name of Anatoli come passed?” the soldier asked, Polish choppy and heavily accented, “Would be young. Brown hair, green eyes?”

 

Marya shivered, remembering the fevered green gaze that had looked down at her like he wanted to tear her flesh from her bones.

 

“Haven’t seen any Russians around here,” the old man said, “Just you bunch.”

 

“Pity,” the soldier said, scratching at his scruffy beard, “He was good boy. Had sister and mother back home. Maybe he just go back.” The soldier exchanged a few more pleasantries with the old man before moving along.

 

Marya ran to the bathroom and threw up into the sink.

 

Two days later, they moved on, making their way further south. Marya stuck close to Erik, who eyed anyone that got too close with suspicion. They encountered only one other group of Russians before the border, and Erik glared so fiercely at them that they gave the two a wide berth.

 

* * *

 

They were in Brno, over halfway through Czechoslovakia on their way to Austria, when Marya saw them.

 

She heard them first, singing a song she hadn’t heard in years, and thought she would never hear again. At first she thought she was imagining it, but the song was slightly different than she remembered. She’d grown up around the German-Polish border, traveling between the two when it suited their family. They never travelled this far south, but Romani were Romani, and some songs were common, though there were regional spins.

 

Erik was negotiating the price of a few measly scraps of meat that a merchant was selling. They were nearly out of the gold that her parent had given him all those months ago, but Erik was nothing if not resourceful. Marya stood silently at his side, letting him argue with the man—not that he would have spoken to Marya in the first place. Her hair had grown back enough that it was much more obvious that she was a girl. The only thing Marya might miss about pretending to be a boy was the way other men  _ didn’t _ treat her, like she was the meat they were arguing over.

 

The memory of the Russian boy-soldier made her shiver.

 

The song drifted into her ears over the bustle of the city, coming from around the block. She turned towards it in shock, trying to hear over everything else. When she was sure she wasn’t imagining it, she took off running. Erik shouted at her, and followed, clearly pissed. She didn’t care, she  _ knew _ that song, and as she got closer, she could pick out the words as well, in a language that was achingly familiar.

 

A small group of Roma were on the street corner, dancing and singing in hopes of someone sparing some food or coin. They were dressed poorly, and looked as skinny and war-weary as any of the passers-by, but they were definitely Roma. Marya almost wept at the sight of them.

 

“Brothers! Sisters!” she cried. Romani was an old friend on her tongue, natural like putting one foot in front of the other, “I’m so glad I found you!”

 

The two girls dancing and singing stopped, and the three men playing music put down their instruments and stood. They watched her run up to them suspiciously, “Who are you?” one of the men asked.

 

“I’m Marya Maximoff,” she told them, “My family was from the north before the war.”

 

“And now?” he asked, eyeing her with more interest now. She was fair where most of her people were darker, but it was clear once you looked at her and heard her speak the language,  _ their _ language, that she was Romani.

 

Marya cast her eyes down, “They . . . they didn’t make it out of the war,” was all she said. The numbers on her arms felt like they burned.

 

The two other women, one her age and the other somewhat older, looked at her in sympathy. The lead man, the one who had spoken, looked back at the others. He sighed and rubbed his neck, turning back to them, “Listen, we don’t have much, but we can take you to our camp for now. The elders will decide what to do with you.”

 

Marya beamed, happy even for that small promise. At the very least, she knew that they hadn’t all been wiped out by the war. She turned and motioned for Erik to follow her.

 

The man narrowed his eyes, “He can’t come. He’s Gadze, not Romani.”

 

Marya felt her chest tighten, “He saved my life. Surely, you can make an exception?”

 

The man looked like he was about to argue further, but another man, taller but younger looking, “Just for one night at least, Hanzi,” he said, smiling over Hanzi’s shoulder at them, “We can’t just turn her away.”

 

“She’s only a little girl,” one of the women said. She looked to be in her early forties.

 

Hanzi eyeballed them again. Marya smiled at them and Erik stood indifferent, having not understood a word of what they’d said. Hanzi sighed and shook his head, “Fine, but only for one night.”

 

Marya breathed a sigh of relief. One of the women, the one who had spoken to Hanzi, wrapped an arm around her, “Stick close to me deary, I’ll look after you. My name is Charani.”

 

“I’m Marya, this is Erik.” She gestured to Erik, “We’re on our way to Austria,” she explained.

 

“Austria?” Charani raised an eyebrow, “We’re heading up to Prague. You’re welcome to join us if there isn’t anything important in Austria.”

 

“Maybe,” Hanzi corrected her as they packed up their things. It seemed that people didn’t have enough to give away to street dancers, “Maybe we have space for you.”

 

“What’s going on?” Erik asked her, laying a hand on her shoulder. He didn’t speak Romani.

 

“We’re going to stay the night with them, and maybe they’ll let us come along with them,” Marya said.

 

Erik furrowed his brow, “For the night,” he said, letting go and bending to help the other two men pack up.

 

Their camp was in a slightly destroyed part of the city, among the ruble. Usually they would stay on the outskirts of the city, but the outskirts had been abandoned over the duration of the war. Marya felt her heart race at the sight of so many of her people still alive.

 

“You two come with me,” Hanzi said, “We’re going to talk to Ziroli.”

 

Marya nodded and pulled Erik along. Hanzi eyed them suspiciously, but said nothing. He led them to an elderly man, maybe in his sixties. He was talking to several other men, but he looked up when they approached, smiling at Hanzi. 

 

“Ziroli,” Hanzi greeted, “This girl is Marya Maximoff. She said she’s from the north, travelling south after the war took her family.”

 

Ziroli looked down at her and smiled kindly, “I see,” he said. He noticed Erik and frowned, “And the boy?”

 

“His name is Erik Lehnsherr,” Marya said, “He’s Jewish, he saved my life in the camp.”

 

“The camp?” Ziroli asked, “My dear, what do you mean?”

 

Marya showed the tattoo on her arm, making Ziroli frown deeper, “We heard rumors of camps. Killing sights. You’re saying they’re all true?”

 

Marya nodded, “They took everything from us. They killed my whole family and hundreds, thousands of Roma where we were. They took our clothes, our possessions, our hair, even our names. I escaped by pretending to be a boy and staying close to Erik.”

 

Erik, hearing his name several times, puffed out his chest and stood tall. Even half-starved, he managed to be a very striking and slightly intimidating figure. He’d had the world fall down on top of him and got back up again. Marya doubted there was anything he couldn’t do if he set his mind to it.

 

Ziroli regarded him for a few minutes, then turned back to Marya, “The two of you . . . are you together?” he asked.

 

It took Marya a minute to understand his meaning, “No, never!” Marya protested. Her friend or not, Erik was Erik, and they had been through too much to think of anything like that, “I’m a virgin,” she proclaimed. She remembered that that was important, though she couldn’t exactly remember why.

 

Ziroli let out a hum, “And you have no other family?” he asked.

 

Marya thought of her mother and father, and the ovens that had swallowed them up and spat them out through the chimneys, “No, none at all.”

 

Ziroli sighed, “I suppose if you find someone to look after you, you can come along. But our resources are stretched pretty thin. I don’t think anyone would take a girl in right now.”

 

Marya felt her heart sink, “Please! I have no one else,” she begged, “I thought all of the Roma had been wiped out, you have no idea what it means to me that you’re all here.”

 

“I’m sorry little girl, but we don't have the luxury of taking on new members right now. You can travel with us if you wish, but none of us can take care of you.”

 

Marya bit her lip; it wasn’t much, but it wasn’t nothing at least. It would be difficult, but at least she would be with her people. She forced back tears and nodded.

 

Ziroli sighed deeply, “There’s no shortage of loss around. Maybe someone will adopt you out of sympathy,” he encouraged, “Why don’t you go with Hanzi? He’ll get you two something to eat.”

 

“I will?” Hanzi protested. At Ziroli’s glare, he groaned, “Fine. Come on. There should be something somewhere.”

 

They followed close behind Hanzi, back to where Charani was putting together some kind of meal. Erik, now relegated to the one following her, seemed more sour than usual, “What happened?” he asked.

 

“I can travel with them, but I have to take care of myself,” she said, “I don’t have any family to take care of me.”

 

Erik frowned, “Why do you need someone to take care of you?” he asked.

 

Marya blinked, “It’s not proper for a girl to be independent,” she said, but something was wrong with that, though she couldn’t pace it.

 

Erik scoffed, “Who cares about propriety after everything that’s happened?”

 

Marya rolled her eyes. He didn’t understand, and no amount of explaining would change that. They sat down with Hanzi and Charani and accepted some weak cabbage soup.

 

“It’s not my best,” Charani said, “But it’s the best we have for the moment.”

 

“Thank you.” Marya took the bowl and sipped at the hot soup. It had warmed up considerably in the weeks they had been travelling south, but the nights were still cold.

 

“So you’re heading to Austria?” Charani asked, slicing some bread into thin slices and passing them out.

 

“Erik is,” Marya said, “But we might stay.”

 

Charani smiled at her. She scooted closer and inspected Marya more closely, “How old are you?” she asked.

 

Marya blinked; how old  _ was _ she? It had been so long since that had mattered. She took a moment to think about it, “Fourteen,” she answered after too long a pause.

 

Charani made a noise of sympathy, “Hanzi, she’s as old as Sidonia would have been.”

 

“Charani, no,” Hanzi said, “You can’t take her in, she has no prospects and she’s been travelling with a boy for who knows how long. We have no way of knowing if she’s still pure.”

 

“Hanzi,” Charani scolded, “She’s fourteen, what could she possibly have done?”

 

“I’m still pure,” Marya defended, “I told you I was.”

 

Hanzi grumbled, “She’s got no prospects. She’s a little orphan from the north that we can’t afford to take care of. Aside from that, you're a widow. You barely have the means to take care of yourself, let alone a little girl.”

 

“What are they talking about?” Erik leaned in and asked her. He was getting a little frustrated not knowing what they were saying.

 

“Their arguing about taking me in. I don’t have anything that makes it worthwhile to take me in, especially in such hard times,” Marya explained as Charani and Hanzi argued.

 

Erik sat back and thought for a while, then pulled out the little bag of gold they still had. There was only a wristwatch, a broken cigarette case, and a few gold fillings left, the rest having been traded away. Erik sifted through it for a moment before holding it out to her.

 

Marya blanched, “I can't take that,” she said.

 

“It your parents gold. Technically it's yours.” Erik thrust the bag at her again, “Take it and go with your people.”

 

He dropped the bag into her lap and set aside his empty bowl. He stood up and began walking away, out of the camp.

 

Marya scrambled after him, clutching the bag in her hand, “You’re leaving? Just like that? After everything we’ve been through?”

 

“Go with your people, Marya,” Erik said, not stopping or turning to look at her, “You’re better off here.”

 

Marya trotted along beside him, “What about you, where are you going to go?”

 

“I’m going to find Schmidt,” Erik said.

 

Marya groaned, “Not that again. Give it up Erik. You’re never going to find him, and even if you do, what are you going to do? Kill him?”

 

“Yes,” Erik answered easily.

 

Marya stopped a little at the easy, almost casual way Erik admitted to preempted murder, “Erik you can't just murder people,” she said, grabbing onto his arm.

 

Erik rounded on her, grabbing hold of her arms and squeezing painfully, “Why the hell not?” he snarled, “Schmidt, Mengele, Himmler, Hitler, every Nazi in the world got away with murder. They murdered so many people that they had to burn the bodies because there was no room for all of the mass graves.” His eyes blazed with fury, “They need to pay for what they've done.”

 

Marya whimpered; in all their time together, even when he yelled at her or scolded her, even in the camp when he’d hit her once or twice, she’d never seen him like this. She never felt  _ afraid _ of him before.

 

Erik shoved her backwards, into the dirt, “Go with your people Marya. You’re better off with them,” he said, “I wash my hands of you.”

 

With that, he turned and walked into the night, out of her life forever.

 

Charani and Hanzi came up behind her, having followed when the two children ran off, “What was that all about?” Hanzi asked as Charani helped Marya to her feet.

 

“He’s going on to Austria,” Marya said when she managed to find her voice, “He’s not coming along.”

 

“I don't think he was welcome anyway,” Hanzi scoffed, “He’s a Gadze, not one of us.”

 

“Hanzi, shush,” Charani scolded, “Are you alright dear? Did he hurt you?” she asked Marya, helping her brush off the dirt.

 

“I’m fine,” Marya said, but it sounded hollow to her ears. She clenched her fists, realizing after a second that the little sack of the remaining gold was still in her hand.

 

“What’s that” Hanzi asked as she lifted the bag to check the contents.

 

“Just a little bit of gold,” Marya explained, “My parents gave it to him so he would protect me. I guess he figured he didn't need the rest of it if we were going to part ways.”

 

“Gold?” Hanzi said with interest, “How much gold?”

 

“Hanzi, enough,” Charani snapped. She took off her shawl and wrapped it around Marya’s shoulders, “Come on honey, we’re all off to bed soon. You can stay with me.”

 

Marya smiled and tucked the shawl around her, “Thank you ma’am,” she said.

 

Charani waved her hand dismissively, “None of that dear. Call me Auntie from now on.”

 

Marya smiled. For the first time in a long time, it was starting to feel like she had a family again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kanadakommando; this was a group of Auschwitz prisoners responsible for taking newly arrived prisoners belongings from them when they got off the train. They were often able to steal food and things and trade them in the camp for other things like extra food.
> 
> Roma 'Family Camp'; the Roma and Sinti people were kept separate from other prisoners in Auschwitz, and oddly not separated by gender like most of the rest of the camp. The entire camp was 'liquidated' by gas chamber around the beginning of August 1944. Very few survived.
> 
> Auschwitz, Birkenau, and Monowitz; there were three distinct camp sites that are referred to as being 'Auschwitz'. Birkenau was where the majority of the killing went on, while Auschwitz and Monowitz were more for labor. Monowitz is also sometimes referred to as 'Buna' for the kind of rubber it was meant to produce (ironically, it never even produced a pound of rubber).
> 
> Liberation of Auschwitz; in January of 1945, the Nazi's evacuated Auschwitz and drove most of the prisoners on 'Death Marches' further into German controlled territory, away from the advancing Russian front. They attempted to destroy the camp and it's records, but didn't have the time. Many prisoners stayed in the camp, being liberated by the Red Army on January 27th. Russian soldiers shared their food with the sickly and often dying prisoners that remained. However, their hospitality ended there, and the prisoners were left to fend for themselves and get themselves home. The Russians set up a military base at Auschwitz temporarily.
> 
> Red Soldiers; travelling home after the war was precarious, especially for women. Russian soldiers would often get drunk and rape any women they came across, but especially women who were also travelling. There are many accounts of soldiers raping women to death.
> 
> Romanipen and Gadze; 'gadze' is a word meaning 'outsider' in Romani, referring to anyone who's not Roma. Children adopted at a young age who are non-Roma by blood are considered Romanipen, while children of Roma descent who have been raised outside the Roma culture can be considered Gadze.
> 
> Purity; in Roma culture, women are supposed to remain virgins until marriage, and the idea of 'purity' is very important, especially for women, who are viewed as the protectors of Roma culture. While a Gadze woman might be accepted into the tribe through marriage to a Roma man (provided that she convert to their way of life), Gadze men are rarely accepted through marriage to Roma women. Family is also very important to the Roma culture.


	2. Prologue I: Erik and Marya part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Before we begin, this is important.**  
>  I tried to do as much research into Roma culture as I needed to for this fic, but I have taken a few small liberties here and there. According to my research, most Roma people are married via arranged marriage at a young age (before 19 or so), and as far as I know, the bit about Marya's particular tribe having the custom of marrying at the end of the month is something that **I made up.** I made it up as a plot device to extend the engagement so Erik and Marya could have time together. **I have taken some liberties in regard to Roma culture, but I in no way mean them to be offensive. I don't mean to appropriate or cast _any_ culture in a bad light. If anyone has an issue with the way something is written, please let me know and I will do my best to change it within the parameters of the plot.**

The years passed by, and Marya grew into a young woman, bright eyed and beautiful. Her hair had grown back fully, dark, rich waves of brown cascading down her back. With fair skin and a heart-shaped face, even the men in the towns they passed would say she was a beauty.

 

Charani had adopted her, which wasn’t surprising, and Hanzi, her brother-in-law, had come around to Marya’s coy charms over the years. The whole group accepted her as family now, and the only time it was acknowledged that she came from the north was when they spoke about the atrocities done to their people at the hands of the Nazis.

 

Most days, Marya could live with it. She had nightmares each night of the camps, but during the daylight it often seemed so far away that she couldn't even picture it.

 

On bad days, Marya could refuse to get out of bed until someone threatened to douse her with water or smack her with a stick unless she got up. She would go through those days quiet and somber, batting away well-meaning comments that she should smile and be happy, that a girl was at her best when she smiled.

 

It had gotten so bad at one point that, over breakfast one day, Marya had said aloud, “I think I want to kill myself.”

 

Charani sighed into her tea, “You’re so dramatic sometimes,” she said. She took a sip of tea and eyed the mostly full plate of food Marya had been picking listlessly at, “You know, you’re going to have to outgrow these little fits one day. You can’t keep on like this forever. What will your children think?”

 

Marya had spent an entire week in bed after that.

 

Later, Marya would think that she might have actually tried to kill herself if Django hadn't come into the picture.

 

Django was four years older than her, and had been a decent friend to her while she was growing from girl to woman. He was an orphan like her, his parents having been carted off by Nazis during the war, but Ziroli, the group patriarch, was his great-uncle, so he was well looked after. He’d readily accepted her as a part of the group and helped her out when she needed it. They were decent friends, and spoke to each other when they were in the same vicinity, but they never actively sought each other out. However, when Marya’s mood took a turn for the worse, something made Django step up and help her out of it.

 

He would sit at her bedside for hours, talking to her and trying to make her laugh. He brought her little gifts of chocolates and flowers to cheer her up. He even brushed her hair when Marya just didn't have the energy to do it.

 

What Marya really appreciated though, was when he would listen to her. He would sit quietly as she told him about the camps, about how she had survived with the help of a Jewish boy while everyone she knew had perished. She even told him about the Russian boy who had nearly raped her, an event she hadn't even told Charani about.

 

“That must have been very frightening,” Django said quietly, not moving towards her or away, but staying put, a steady presence close enough to be felt, but far away enough not to crowd her.

 

Marya hummed, “I still see his eyes in my dreams at night. I reach for the stick, but suddenly it’s too far away and I can't grab it,” she said, “I feel his hands around my neck and I . . .”

 

She choked on a sob and noticed for the first time that she was crying. Django scooted a little closer to her, “Hey, it’s okay now. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

 

Marya said nothing and only buried her face into his shirt, crying until she felt she had no more tears.

 

When Marya was finally well enough, she and Django became a couple, a fact which pleased her adoptive family to no end. He was a good man from a good family and he would take good care of her, even in these hard times. Marya, however, resisted marriage, even though she loved Django.

 

“I just don't think I can right now,” she tried to explain to him, “I’m just not ready.”

 

Django took her hand in his, “It’s okay. I'll wait,” he said.

 

“You’re being ridiculous,” Charani said when she heard that there wouldn't be a marriage just yet, “He’s a wonderful boy any girl would be lucky to have. Why wait around?”

 

“Auntie,” Marya sighed, “I want to wait a little while. Just to . . . just to be sure I’m ready.”

 

“What’s there to be ready for?” Charani said, “He loves you, you love him. You make no sense sometimes.”

 

“All you women make no sense,” Hanzi teased, “But look on the bright side. All this extra time gives Django plenty of time to save up for a good bride price.”

 

Charani smacked him with a dishcloth, “Enough out of you,” she chided. She turned back to her adoptive daughter, “We’re not going to force you to marry before you want to, but even the most wonderful man won't wait around forever.”

 

1958 rolled around, and Marya turned twenty-seven. Most of the girls her age were married with at least one or two children, but Marya still resisted her family and now Django’s attempts to tie her down into marriage.

 

“Marya, I’m trying to be patient,” he said to her one night, “But people are starting to talk. I’m trying to let you have your space, but I’m starting to wonder if you even want to get married at all.”

 

“Of course I do,” Marya said, “I’m just—”

 

“Not ready yet,” Django finished for her, face twisting into annoyance, “Well when will you be ready?”

 

When indeed?

 

Marya didn't have an answer for him, and Django didn't speak to her for a week. She could hear the whispers at her back, caught snippets of rumours about her. Maybe she was barren, sterilized at the camp and she didn't want Django to know. Maybe she was scarred up from the camps and she didn't want Django to see her naked body. Maybe, just maybe, she was already married. Do you remember that boy she came with? The Jew she arrived with who came with her from the camps? Maybe she’s secretly married to him and she’s too ashamed to admit it.

 

At the end of the week, when Django came over for supper and to apologize, Marya agreed to marry him.

 

Django wrapped her up in her arms as Charani and Hanzi celebrated, “Oh Marya, you’ve made me so happy,” he said into her ear, “I promise that you won't regret this.”

 

Marya smiled up at him, “I’m sure I won’t.”

 

* * *

 

Her one stipulation was that they get married at the end of the month. The month had only just begun, which meant that they would have to wait a whole other month. Charani, Hanzi, and even Ziroli weren’t pleased, but Marya was firm.

 

“In my family, we always get married on the last day of the month,” she said, “And that night, when the month changes into the next one, it symbolizes the newness of married life, and brings good luck.”

 

“That’s not a custom we share, my dear,” Ziroli said, voice gravelly with age, “We have been lenient with you, but you are part of this family now, and you should follow our customs.”

 

Marya felt her hackles rise, “Being a part of this family, doesn’t make me not a part of my family,” she said, a distant memory echoing in her mind, “I want to wait until the end of the month.”

 

Ziroli and Hanzi both looked like they were about to yell at her, but Django stopped them, “You’re right,” he told her, “If it’s that important to you, I can wait one more month.” He smiled at her and tucked her into an embrace, “I’ve waited this long, I'm sure I can stand to wait one more month.”

 

Marya squeezed him back, “Thank you,” she said into his chest.

 

So the wedding would be at the end of the month. The whole community was talking about it, excited for it to finally be happening. The other women her age cornered her one day.

 

“I can't believe it's finally happening,” Anja said, hoisting her wriggling two year old son higher onto her hip, “All this time and it’s finally happening. I never thought I’d see the day.”

 

“It’s certainly about time. What were you thinking you silly girl?” an older woman by the name of Viktoria teased, bumping her hip against Marya’s, “Wasting all that time? You better hurry up and get to it if you want healthy babies.”

 

“That’s true,” Cecílie said, no more than twenty and already pregnant with her second child, “Everyone knows that younger mothers have stronger babies. Better chances to have sons too.”

 

“Unless she’s too young,” Marya said. The other women all laughed as though she had made a funny joke.

 

As the preparations for the wedding got into full swing, Marya felt herself growing more and more distant from her surroundings. On the outside, she played the part of the happy, eager bride-to-be, but inside, she felt like she was freezing to death. She told herself it was wedding jitters, that it would pass and she and Django would be happy.

 

It was around this time that she bumped into Erik again.

 

* * *

 

They were in Brno again, coincidentally enough, stopped in the city as the Communist regime weighed heavily down on them. They had stopped moving around the countrysides in the last two years, and there was talk of making their homes permanent. Things had changed so much since the end of the war.

 

Marya was in the marketplace, buying some vegetables for dinner, when she spotted him. He was walking down the street, head high and shoulders square. She didn't recognize him at first, but he drew her eye anyway, as he did with many others on the street. It was obvious why.

 

The years had been good to him, and he’d grown quite tall and broad. He was well built and muscular, visible even under his clothes, which were nice, too nice for the area he was in. Not ridiculously expensive, and perhaps a year or two old, but nice enough to be uncommon.

 

Marya also noticed, for the first time, how handsome Erik was. He had a strong, noble look to him, complimented nicely by the stoic expression he wore. She might not have recognized him at all if not for his eyes, that steely grey-blue that held the same shadow she saw in her own face when she looked in the mirror.

 

Quickly paying for her purchases, she ran after him, “Erik!” she called, “Erik Lehnsherr!”

 

Erik whipped his head around, scanning the crowd. For a moment she thought she saw a bit of anger, but his eyes caught hers and it morphed into surprise and confusion.

 

“Marya?” he asked, “Is that you?”

 

Forgetting for a moment that they were in a public square, Marya wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly, “It’s so good to see you,” she said, smiling a real smile for what felt like the first time in ages.

 

Erik put a broad, warm hand on her back, the other holding his suitcase, “It’s good to see you too,” he said quietly.

 

They pulled back after a long moment, and Marya could see that he was smiling a little as well, “Come and have dinner with me,” she said, “With my family.”

 

Erik raised an eyebrow, “Your family?” he asked as they started walking.

 

She linked her arm through his and led him through the crush of people, “My adoptive family. You remember when I left, Charani and Hanzi?”

 

“Vaguely,” Erik said, letting her guide him, “They took you in?”

 

“Yes,” she said. As an afterthought, she added, “There’s also Django, my fiancé.”

 

“Congratulations,” Erik said.

 

Marya let out a hum, “So what have you been up to all these years? Did you ever get to Austria?”

 

Erik nodded, “Yes, and after that I went to Switzerland, then Yugoslavia, and then back up to Germany, and then to Argentina for a while,” he said.

 

“Well you're certainly well travelled,” Marya said, only a little surprised, “And I thought my people never settled in one place.”

 

Erik chuckled, and she found herself laughing alongside him. For the first time in a long while, she felt like herself again. She wasn’t sure what it meant, for Erik to cause such a reaction in her, but she didn’t much care right now.

 

Her family, more hospitable now that times were somewhat better, welcomed Erik as Marya’s honoured guest.

 

“We’re so grateful what you did for her all those years ago,” Charani said, ushering him into their home, “Even if some of us didn’t show it back then.” She glared pointedly at Hanzi, who crossed his arms and harrumphed.

 

“It’s fine,” Erik said, smiling politely, “Times were tough back then. I’m glad you’ve taken to Marya so well.”

 

“Marya regards you quite highly,” Django said, “I’m so pleased to finally be meeting you.” He held out his hand for Erik to shake.

 

Erik took it and Marya noticed how different the two men were; Erik was taller, with fair hair and skin, broad and strong where Django was smaller and darker, more willowy and compact, despite being older than the other man. Erik’s whole body spoke of power, barely contained, whereas Django was less threatening, more open and perhaps kinder. Marya wondered after it a little; how the two most important men in her life could be so different.

 

“You should stay for the wedding,” Django suggested, “It’s in a few weeks, if you’ll still be in town.”

 

Erik paused, “I . . . might be,” he said, “It depends.”

 

“What sort of business brings you to the city?” Hanzi asked, “You must be quite successful.” He eyed Erik’s obviously mid-range clothing, which stood out against the poverty around him.

 

“I’m in the business of getting people to pay their debts,” Erik said. There was something in his tone that made Marya think it went deeper than that, but none of the others noticed.

 

“Tax collector? That does sound lucrative,” Hanzi said with a hum, stroking his greying beard.

 

“Enough talk of business,” Charani said, tugging Erik to the table, “Sit down and have dinner with us.”

 

“Well, I’ve never been one to turn away a free meal,” Erik said, making the others laugh.

 

* * *

 

The evening passed pleasantly; Erik spoke to Hanzi and Django while Marya and Charani prepared dinner, then to all of them while they ate, and then to Hanzi and Django again as Marya and Charani cleaned up. Something about the arrangement had always sat wrong with Marya, but she held her tongue as she always did. It wasn’t like anyone would do anything about it.

 

It wasn’t until late that she and Erik could finally sit and talk to one another alone. At first, Django had offered to have Erik stay with him, on account of having more comfortable accommodations, but it was pointed out that Django’s cousin and her husband (and their many children) were already staying with him and Charani and Hanzi had more room.

 

“I’ll be back tomorrow morning,” Django said, kissing her forehead, “I’ll bring you over for breakfast with Uncle.”

 

“That’s so early,” Marya protested, “How about lunch?”

 

Django chuckled, “What, afraid I’ll see you all mussed up from sleep?” he teased.

 

Marya laughed and shoved his chest, “Not in the slightest. We are getting married after all,” she said, “I’ll come by for lunch. You know I like to go for a walk early anyway.”

 

“I can join you,” Django suggested.

 

Marya sighed, “You know—”

 

“I know, I’m sorry,” Django cut her off, “You need your alone time. I guess I’m just anxious to be married. I want to spend all my time with you.”

 

Marya smiled, “We have plenty of time to be married,” she said, “Let me enjoy the last of my time as a free woman.”

 

Django laughed and kissed her once more, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, and finally left. Marya let out a long sigh.

 

Climbing the stairs of her foster family’s house, she stopped in the door of Erik’s room, which was Hanzi’s room. They had arranged it so that Erik would stay in Hanzi’s room, Hanzi would stay in Charani’s room, and Charani and Marya would share. Listening for her foster family, hoping that they wouldn’t hear her, she knocked on Erik’s door.

 

Erik opened the door, still dressed in his shirt and pants, but without his tie and jacket. The first few buttons on his shirt were open, showing his tanned throat. Marya forced her eyes upwards.

 

“Sorry, I know it’s late,” she said, “But I wanted to talk.”

 

Erik regarded her for a minute before stepping aside and letting her in. She hurried inside, “Don’t close the door,” she said quickly, “I don’t want Charani to get the wrong idea.”

 

Erik raised an eyebrow, but obeyed her. He walked to the bed and sat down, waiting for her. She sat down next to him on the bed. They said nothing for a few moments, and Marya thought of the nights they spent together at Auschwitz, in that tiny little room, talking for hours because some nights it was just too hard to sleep.

 

“You look good,” Marya blurted, “I mean, you’ve grown quite a bit.”

 

“Thank you,” Erik said, “So have you.”

 

Marya smiled, and they talked. They talked for what seemed like hours, mostly about times long ago, when they were little more than children. Things had changed so much since then that it was almost alarming.

 

At one point, Charani came to investigate, “It’s almost midnight,” she said, watching Marya with concern, “You should come to bed.”

 

“I’m just talking to Erik,” Marya insisted, “We have the door open.”

 

Charani looked like she wanted to say something, but let out a sigh instead, “Keep the door open,” she said, then shuffled off to bed.

 

Marya sighed and shook her head, “She seems quite worried,” Erik said, “Should you go?”

 

“No, it’s fine,” Marya said, “Everyone is just anxious for me to get married.”

 

“And you?” Erik asked.

 

Marya reached up and touched the string of coins around her neck, from the  pliashka ceremony that was held after they officially announced their engagement. In absence of Django’s late father, Ziroli had been the one to embrace her and welcome her into the family, draping the gold coins around her neck to signify that she was unavailable to other men. They had danced and sang the night away, and Marya remembered the hollow feeling in her stomach, and wondering for a moment or two if she had made the right choice.

 

“Marya?” Erik’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts. Marya smiled up at him, though even to her it felt forced.

 

“Django’s a good man,” she said, “He’s been nothing but accommodating and kind. He could have chosen any girl in the community, and he chose me.”

 

“He sounds like a good man,” Erik agreed.

 

Marya hummed, “We’re very lucky to be allowed to choose,” she said, “Most marriages are arranged in the community. If he hadn’t chosen me on his own, I doubt anyone would have wanted to marry me.”

 

“Why not?” Erik asked, genuine curiosity etched on his face.

 

“I don’t have a real family. I’m an outsider, and more than that I’m . . . odd,” Marya said, rubbing the numbers on her arm.

 

Erik noticed and placed his hand over hers, “We all have our scars from the war.”

 

Marya shook her head, “Not anyone else here. Not the way I—we do,” she said, “They never saw a camp, they managed to hide through the war. No one else here knows—” she cut herself off, squeezing her arm, “They don't know what we went through.”

 

Erik said nothing and only sat in silence next to her as she continued, “Django tries,” she said, “He tries very hard to understand and I love him for that, but he’d the only one. The others will listen, but it’s like they’re listening to a horror story. At first, no one wanted to hear about such awful things, when I was young and I wanted them all to know. But now, they all want to hear about what happened to me and it just catches in my throat and I can’t speak.” Marya felt tears sting her eyes, “I wish I could just forget.”

 

Erik suddenly turned to face her, taking her hand in his. Their tattoos lined up as he gripped her hand tightly, “Don’t forget,” he said, “Never forget what they did to us. If you let yourself forget, then they win. They get away with what they did and they’ll never face justice for it.”

 

Marya blinked at him through her tears, then she began to laugh, even as more tears fell down her face. Erik only squeezed her hand and let her cry against his chest, a solid, silent presence that watched over her. It almost felt familiar, like when they were children in an uncaring world, united against the odds.

 

* * *

 

When Marya woke up, she was tucked into Hanzi’s bed. She didn’t remember falling asleep, but she was still fully dressed, so she supposed she had simply cried herself to sleep. Erik was nowhere to be seen, and she guessed that he’d simply gone downstairs to sleep on the couch. It was still early, and when she passed her usual bedroom, it looked like Charani was still asleep. Marya headed down to the kitchen and started some coffee. She always put coffee on, but she usually left breakfast to Charani, she’d never really mastered cooking.

 

Erik was indeed on the couch, though he didn’t look very comfortable. Marya chuckled and continued in the kitchen until he wandered in, awoken by the smell of coffee apparently.

 

“Sorry for last night,” she said as she got up to fetch a second mug for him, “I stole your bed.”

 

“We both know I’ve slept in worse places,” he pointed out, accepting the mug of coffee.

 

Marya laughed, “How could I forget,” she said. They sat in comfortable silence for a while, just enjoying the early morning, “I’m going out for a walk in a few minutes, if you’d like to join me,” Marya said as she rinsed out the mugs.

 

“Sounds nice,” Erik said, “I’ll head up and change.” He took to the stairs while Marya finished up in the kitchen. She’d already changed upstairs, careful not to wake her faster aunt.

 

Erik came back down a few minutes later, changed into a fresh set of clothing and shaved. He didn’t offer his arm as they headed for the door, like Django would have, but Marya found herself pleased by this. They walked in the early morning coolness, their breath puffs of white clouds.

 

“So what do you really do?” Marya asked as they walked, “You’re not really a tax collector, are you?”

 

Erik didn't say anything for a moment, “No,” he said, “But I can’t tell you what I do.”

 

“Spooky,” Marya said, “You must drive all the girls wild, walking around with that kind of mystery hanging about you.”

 

Erik laughed, “I don’t really have time for anything like that,” he said, “I’m rather busy.”

 

Marya raised an eyebrow, “No? You don’t even have a girlfriend?” she asked, “A man as good looking as you?”

 

Erik hummed, “No, I don’t stay in one place too long.”

 

“Will you be able to stay for the wedding?” she asked.

 

Erik shrugged, “Depends on how quickly I find my guy,” he said, “There’s someone in the city I’m looking for.”

 

“Anyone I know?” Marya asked.

 

Erik glanced over at her oddly, “No,” he said after too long.

 

Marya wanted to ask, but she knew, she remembered how Erik was. He wouldn’t budge on telling her anything.

 

They walked for a while, talking and enjoying each other’s company. They finally circled back around to the house, taking the longer, scenic route to prolong their time alone. When they finally arrived back at the house, Marya was surprised to see Django already there.

 

“I thought you weren’t coming until later?” she questioned, leaning in for a kiss.

 

Django put his hands on her hips and held her tightly, “I thought I would surprise you,” he said. He glanced over at Erik, “After your morning walk, after you had your alone time.”

 

Marya felt her stomach go hot, “Django, please,” she said, almost whispering, “You know it’s not like that.”

 

Django scowled, “Then what is it like?”

 

Marya glanced back at Erik, who was insisting he help Charani with breakfast, “We went through a lot together, you know that. He won’t stay forever, and I want to spend some time with him.”

 

Django sighed, pulling her close, “I know, I’m sorry,” he said, “But, please remember that  _ I’m _ your fiance?”

 

“Of course,” Marya said, resting her head against his chest, “Of course.”

 

* * *

 

After the first night, Erik found a place to stay in the city. A modest hotel room that was close enough that he could come an visit Marya and her family whenever. The other’s in the community found it odd for a Gadze to visit so often, but Marya ignored them. She was just happy to have her friend back with her, if only for a short time.

 

The wedding crept closer, and the preparations became more and more elaborate. It had been many years since they had been able to have such a huge wedding, and all of the protests about the extended engagement flew out the window. Everyone was excited for such a big spectacle.

 

More and more, Marya found herself excusing herself from the preparations to talk and spend time with Erik. The people of the community talked, rumors flew, and even Django grew concerned, but Marya didn't care. She had back the man who had protected her, saved her life, and she wasn’t about to waste a moment.

 

Somewhere along the way, they started sleeping together.

 

Later in life, Marya was never able to point out the how and why, but she was quite certain she initiated it. She was also sure she had only meant for it to be once, a curiosity she had to quell. However, Erik turned out to be a fantastic lover, and she kept coming back for more. Erik never turned her away, though he never came to her either, it was always Marya who started it.

 

Marya was careful, and made sure to hide any evidence of the affair. She tried to keep their encounters brief and away from the community, preferably at Erik’s hotel room.

 

“What am I doing?” Marya asked herself one day after she and Erik had tumbled around in bed together.

 

Erik slipped on his pants, “You seemed to know a few minutes ago,” he said.

 

Marya sighed and sat up, reaching for her brazier. She had to run back home to help Charani with the decorations for the wedding. It was just a week and a few days away now.

 

Careful as she was, rumours still flittered about, making their way back to her. Now, however, the most common rumour was that she was messing around with the handsome Jewish man she’d brought into their community. This time, Marya wasn’t concerned with what the others thought of her. Perhaps because the rumour was actually true, but no one really knew except for Marya and Erik.

 

Her family was beginning to suspect something though, and Django especially felt how distant and closed off Marya had become with him.

 

“Marya, please,” Django begged her, three days before the wedding, “Why are you doing this to us? Why are you off galavanting with this Gadze?”

 

Marya sighed, “I’m not galavanting, I’m just speaking with him,” she lied, “What, I’m not allowed to have friends anymore? Now I’m supposed to sit at home and cook and clean and have babies and let my brain melt out of my ears?”

 

“Marya.” Django rubbed the bridge of his nose, “You have plenty of other friends. Anja and Cecílie, they’re always nice to talk to.”

 

Marya sighed, “You don’t understand,” she said.

 

Django’s face twisted into fury; he reached forward and grabbed her wrist, hard, “You listen to me!” he shouted, “You’re to be my wife!  _ My _ wife! You have to do as  _ I _ say! And I say you stop messing around with that  _ Jew _ !”

 

“Django,” Marya whimpered, trying to wrench her wrist away, “Django you’re hurting me!”

 

Django yanked her closer, past the point of listening to her. In the dim light, for a second, her brain tricked her into seeing green where there was brown. Marya’s heart stopped in her chest and she began to fight him in earnest.

 

“Let me go!” she shouted in Russian, “Let go of me!”

 

She lashed out for the horrible creature’s eye, terrified out of her mind. She had to get him off, she had to get him away!

 

Her fingernail scratched across his eyebrow and he recoiled, dropping her wrist. She stumbled back and scrambled across the floor, heart pounding. She ducked around the other side of the couch, putting it between her and Django.

 

“Ouch, shit,” Django cursed, touching his brow. There was hardly any blood, but it must have stung quite a bit. He glanced up at her and noticed how terrified she was, “Marya?”

 

“Stay back!” Marya shouted, still in Russian, “Stay away from me!”

 

Realization dawned on him and he looked disgusted with himself, “Oh God, Marya,” he said, face going pale, “Marya, I’m so sorry. I never meant—”

 

He took a step forward and Marya screamed, causing him to stop. She had to get away, her brain unable to make up or down of the reality around her. Erik, she had to go to Erik! He would keep her safe. She bolted for the door and ran out into the night.

 

“Marya!” Django called after her, “Marya!”

 

Marya didn’t listen, all she could hear were gunshots following her into the night. She ran until she ended up at Erik’s hotel room. She pounded on his door, chest heaving and legs burning.

 

Erik opened the door, eyes bright, looking for danger, just like she remembered. Marya lept into his chest, clinging to him.

 

“Marya?” Erik asked, surprised, “What are you doing here?”

 

Marya buried her face into his shirt and sobbed, incoherent. Erik scanned the hallway for danger, and finding none, he pulled Marya inside. He sat her down on the bed and let her cry into his chest. She stayed there for hours, heaving and trying not to sick up on him, even though her stomach was turning and her head was spinning.

 

It was morning before she calmed enough to speak. She told him about what happened, about what Django had said and done.

 

“I’m sure he never meant to do that to you,” Erik said evenly, rubbing her back from where she was sprawled across the bed, face down.

 

“I’m not sure I can face him,” she said, “He suspects something between us.”

 

Erik sighed, “Marya, there’s nothing between us,” he said.

 

Marya sat up and put her hand over his, “Please don’t say that,” she said.

 

Erik stared down at their hands, hers over his. His hands were broad and calloused, like the rest of him, and they spoke of hidden strength and power.

 

“Hey.” Marya leaned in and grinned at him, like they were children again, “Show me that magic trick again,” she said.

 

Erik’s mouth twitched and he raised his other hand. The coins on the dresser floated into the air and spun around, dipping low over her head and darting back up again. Marya laughed and he lowered his hand, setting the coins down.

 

“I never figured out how you do that,” Marya said, still smiling, “You sure you’re not Roma? You don't have the old magic in you?”

 

“Fairly certain,” Erik said with a slight shrug, but his eyes were far away, calculating. He was silent for several minutes, “I’m going to leave today, Marya.”

 

“Erik no,” Marya protested, “The wedding is two days from now. Surely you can stay—”

 

“Marya,” Erik snapped, taking his hand out from under hers, “I'm leaving today.”

 

Marya knew that tone, and what it entailed. Erik wouldn't be persuaded out of his decision, and there was no point in trying. Marya had once pestered him about something when they were in the camp, she didn't remember what it was now, and it had been one of the only four times he’d ever struck her. She’d learned after that to never try and change his mind when he used that tone, it wouldn't end well for anyone.

 

“Why?” she asked instead.

 

Erik didn't speak for a long moment, almost too long, “I took care of my business yesterday, and I need to leave town as soon as possible.”

 

“Your business?” Marya questioned, “Why do you have to leave so quickly? Can't you stay another few days?”

 

Erik shook his head, “No, I can’t. Really I should have left last night,” he said.

 

Marya frowned, “So you were just going to leave without saying goodbye?” she accused.

 

“Marya,” Erik said, his tone one of warning, “I only stayed this long because you are my friend.” He stood up and for the first time, Marya noticed that his things were all packed. He took an envelope from his coat and held it out to her, “Here, a wedding present.”

 

Marya wanted to cry, to beg him to stay with her, to take her with him, anything; but she stayed silent and took the envelope. Numbly, she opened the envelope and nearly shrieked at the amount of money that was in it.

 

“Erik, are you nuts!?” she nearly shouted, “I can take this much money! Where did you get it all?”

 

“Never mind that,” Erik waved a hand, “And I'll be leaving the country soon, so Czechoslovakian money will be worthless where I'm headed. Really, it’s better off with you.”

 

Marya resisted the urge to count it all. She didn't think her whole community had this much money put together, let alone to just give away, “Erik . . . Thank you,” she said, still stunned by his generosity.

 

“You’re welcome,” Erik said. He shrugged on his coat and picked up his suitcase, “I don't think we’ll ever meet again, Marya Maximoff.”

 

Marya clenched her fists, crunching the envelope slightly, “Goodbye, Erik Lehnsherr.”

 

Erik smiled softly at her and bent for one last kiss. Marya shivered, wanting nothing more than to just drag him into bed with her, but she resigned herself to her fate. A listless marriage awaited her, if she hadn't already botched it, and she knew Erik would not take her with him.

 

They broke apart and Erik stood; he gave her one final nod before walking out the door. Marya sat on the bed for a long time, clutching the envelope and trying to cry, but the tears wouldn't come.

 

* * *

 

When Marya finally made her way home, Django was there waiting for her.

 

He didn't look angry anymore, but he sure didn't look happy either, “Where did you go, Marya?” he asked.

 

Marya felt a chill run up her spine, “Away from here,” she answered carefully, “To a hotel.”

 

Django clenched his fists, “To Erik’s hotel?”

 

Marya didn't say a word, not really knowing how what to say. Django seemed to take it as his worst fears confirmed, “How could you do this Marya? I thought you loved me?”

 

“It’s not that simple,” Marya whispered, more to herself, but Django heard her in the quiet of the house.

 

“Then what is it Marya?” he demanded, “Why are you doing this to me?”

 

“I never wanted—” Marya started, “I never intended—”

 

“What did you  _ intend _ ?” Django spat, “What did you want Marya? Did you ever even want to be married to me?”

 

_ No _ , a tiny voice inside Marya answered, but she quelled it before she could say it aloud. She wasn’t sure what exactly it was she really wanted, but it wasn’t this. Her life felt like it made no sense and she couldn’t make sense of herself.

 

Again, Django took her lack of answer as an affirmation of his worst fears, “What did I do Marya? I did everything right. Why don’t you love me?”

 

“I do love you,” Marya said, and it was the truth. She loved Django, but something in her head was making it impossible to be with him the way he wanted. She wished she could be the person that wanted what he wanted her to be, but inside she felt like the little girl who crawled under electrified razor wire to a boy scarcely older than her, her protector.

 

“Then why go to him? I listened to everything! I know you! What does he have that I don’t?” Django demanded.

 

“He was  _ there _ Django,” Marya blurted, “He was there for all of it. Erik saved my life. He . . . he  _ understands _ .” She looked down at the numbers on her arm, tracing them with a finger, “We know each other in a way no one else ever will.”

 

The house fell into silence. The realization that there was nothing she could do to fix this fell upon Marya. She’d ruined things forever with her actions, and there was nothing to do about it.

 

“Did you sleep with him?” Django asked, voice quiet, but the silent house carried it over as if he had shouted at her.

 

“Yes,” Marya said, “He made me feel . . . he made things quiet,” she tried to explain, “He’s the one thing in my life that just made sense.”

 

Django had nothing to say to that. He walked to the door and opened it. Before he walked out, he turned back to her, “The wedding is off.”

 

“I know,” Marya said, standing up straight and turning her back on the man she’d tried so desperately to love, “Goodbye Django.”

 

The door closed behind her as another man walked out of her life that day.

 

* * *

 

Marya sat in the kitchen, slumped over in the chair she’d collapsed into once Django had left. She wasn't sure how long she’d been sitting there, but it couldn't have been too long, since it still looked like morning out when Hanzi and Charani returned.

 

Hanzi stood outside while Charani cautiously entered the kitchen. Marya looked up at the woman she had called Aunt and braced herself.

 

“Marya,” Charani began, “You need to pack your things and leave this house.”

 

Marya glared slightly, “So that’s it?” she asked, “Thirteen years you’ve let me call you family, and you won't even listen to what I have to say?”

 

Charani grimaced, “You ruined things yourself. Now no one will ever take you. You’ve brought shame to this family, so you have to leave.”

 

Marya stood abruptly, “Fine,” she said through clenched teeth. She turned and went up to her room; she had some money saved up, and the money from Erik, so she would be able to live on her own.

 

When she came back down, suitcase in hand, Hanzi was standing in the kitchen, glaring at her, arms crossed.

 

“We never should have taken you in,” he said, “You little slut, you were probably not even pure back then.”

 

Marya clenched her fists, “And how many women have you fucked with no intention to marry? The walls of this house aren't that thick. At least I had the courtesy to do it in private.”

 

Hanzi’s face twisted into rage, “Get out of here you whore!” he shouted, picking up a glass and throwing it at the wall. Charani screamed and Marya ducked out of the way of the glass, “If I ever see you again I'll kill you!”

 

Marya turned and walked out, steps quick, but she didn't run. She felt no shame, oddly, even though quite a crowd had gathered to watch the spectacle. They weren't arranged in any way that would suggest that they were gathered, but Marya could feel their eyes. Hanzi followed her out of the house, shouting and cursing after her, even throwing a rock or two, but Marya kept her head up and her pace steady. She could hear whispering, but no one stepped towards her.

 

“It’s girls like her who give us a reputation for being immoral.” Marya heard an exchange between two women.

 

“Think she’d give it up to me if I asked?” A man, over a decade her senior, chuckled to his friend.

 

“There was always something off about her.”

 

“We never should have taken her in.”

 

“Whore.”

 

“Tramp.”

 

“Slut.”

 

Marya closed her eyes and took a deep breath; she kept walking until she couldn't hear the whispers at her back. She walked away from the people she’d considered friends for years, into the city and away from her former life.

 

Marya felt at peace.

 

* * *

 

Her first instinct was to return to Erik, but he was long gone. Marya went back to the hotel anyway to ask around if he’d left any clue to where he was going. None of the staff or other guests knew anything, not where he’d gone or any way to contact him. Marya booked herself a room for the night, then decided to walk into town. Maybe she would get lucky again and bump into him.

 

Marya would have to get a job, but that wouldn't be too hard. She was quite intelligent, healthy, and she knew several languages. Erik had taught her the basics of French, Russian, English, and Italian, and she’d gone on to perfect these skills and even pick up a bit of Spanish and Dutch. All of this came on top of the German, Polish, and Romani she already knew, as well as the Czech she picked up while living in the country. Over the years she’d worked several translating jobs part time or on commission. She just needed to set herself up a little.

 

Lost in thought, Marya nearly collided with someone standing in the middle of the street, “Pardon me,” she said, stepping around them, only to almost crash into another person.

 

There was a crowd in the middle of the street, talking amongst themselves and pointing at something. Marya couldn't see through the crowd to see what it was they were pointing at, but her curiosity got the better of her and she started weaving her way through the crowd.

 

“Hold on there little lady,” a man said, catching her elbow, “Maybe you should keep on with your business? Up ahead’s a sight no innocent girl should lay eyes on.”

 

Marya wrenched her arm out of his grip, “I’ll decide that for myself, thank you,” she said. She continued on until she reached a police barricade, stopping anyone from getting closer. What was beyond it made Marya’s blood run cold.

 

There was a dead man impaled through the mouth by several pieces of metal rebar hanging from a wall. His feet dangled a good foot off the ground, and the metal looked like it was embedded right into the stone wall behind him. His eyes were cast skyward and his mouth was open in a ghastly, silent howl. Blood dripped down his front and puddled in the street, snaking through the stones and into a sewer drain. Police milled about and tried to encourage onlookers to move along.

 

“It’s the strangest thing,” a man next to her was saying, “The amount of hammering it must have taken to get those bars stuck in the wall like that would have woken up the whole street.”

 

“Could have done it some other time and then pushed the body onto it from the back,” someone else suggested.

 

The first man made a dismissive noise, “I’m up and down this alley all the time. I was just here yesterday morning, and let me tell you, there wasn't any rebar sticking out from the wall.”

 

The second man grunted, “Well them it must have been someone who could shove a two meter long piece of rebar through a man’s head and a stone wall without a hammer, but I'll be damned if I know anyone like that.”

 

Marya felt her heart turn to ice. Erik, Erik could do that. It was quite a step up from coin tricks, but he’d moved larger things and he hadn't been afraid to kill before.

 

_ I took care of my business yesterday, and I need to leave town as soon as possible _ , he’d said, and Marya wanted to be sick. He’d spent the night with her after murdering this man. There was no one else who could have done something like this.

 

“Do we know who the stiff is?” the first man asked.

 

The second man answered in the negative, but a third man piped up, “I overheard the cops talking. They say the man was suspected to have ties to Nazis. They searched his home and found an old SS uniform. This guy was a war criminal.”

 

“Ah well, there you have it,” the first man said, “Someone must have found him out and decided to be judge, jury, and executioner.”

 

“Still doesn't explain the way the body is though,” the second man said, “Nothing natural could have done anything like this.”

 

Unable to stand another word, Marya turned and tried to make her way out of the crowd. It was harder getting out than getting in, and she was getting a little lightheaded.

 

“My dear, are you alright?” a grey haired man in a dark suit asked her, stepping in her way. He looked quite concerned.

 

“I’m fine,” Marya said, though her voice sounded far away, “It’s been a very long day.”

 

“It’s barely two o’clock, my dear,” the man said, “My goodness you’re white as a sheet.”

 

Marya tried to push past him, but she swayed on her feet. The world spun and the next thing she knew, she was on her back, something pillowing her head and a man's coat draped across her.

 

“Are you with us?” a young-ish man with wire frame glasses was standing over her, the old man with grey hair behind him, coat missing, “You fainted.”

 

Marya blinked and tried to sit up, but the man with glasses stopped her, “Easy, easy, take it slow,” he said. He took her elbow and gently got her into a seated position. The thing under her head was another coat.

 

“I’m alright,” Marya said, “Just a little lightheaded. Skipped breakfast,” she tried to explain. It was true, she hadn't eaten anything since last night.

 

“Someone is bringing you some hot tea,” the man with glasses said, “I’m a doctor, may I examine you?”

 

“There’s really no need,” Marya said, shivering. The stone streets were cold under an overcast sky.

 

“Let’s move her to the bench,” the old man suggested, wringing his hands, “You gave us quite a fright, my dear.”

 

“Sorry,” Marya said, letting herself be pulled up and guided to a little bench that was behind a tavern. A teenager came barreling through the crowd, nearly spilling a cup of tea on himself. He handed it to Marya and then stood back. Another coat was draped around her shoulders before she could even protest.

 

“What’s all this fuss?” came a booming, authoritative voice. The crowd parted to let a police officer through.

 

“This lady has had a fall, sir,” the man with glasses said, “She must have been affected by the sight of the body, sir.”

 

“I told her she shouldn't go looking, silly thing,” a man from the crowd said. Marya recognized him as the man who had stopped her.

 

“I was just going to check her vitals, sir, and then we’ll take her away,” the man with glasses said. He was probably a new doctor, Marya supposed, and was unsure around police.

 

The cop regarded Marya, and she met his gaze. She knew she was paler than most Roma, and could sometimes pass for a Gadze if she wanted to, but her clothes were unmistakably Roma. Even though she had done nothing but faint in the street, he might still arrest her for being a public nuisance.

 

“Be quick about it,” the cop sneered, “And clear the street! We don’t need you bunch mucking up the crime scene.”

 

Marya breathed out a sigh of relief. She’d known several friends (former friends now) who had been arrested on arbitrary grounds, just because they were Roma. That was the last thing she needed on a day like today.

 

The doctor with glasses turned back to her, “I’m just going to take your pulse and check you over, alright?” he said, before reaching for her wrist.

 

“If you insist,” Marya muttered to herself. He took her left wrist and rolled up the sleeve of her shirt. He spied the numbers, but said nothing as he took her pulse. He checked her eyes and had her take some deep breaths before declaring that she was healthy.

 

“May I walk you home, my dear?” the old man stepped forward, “I couldn't live with myself if you collapsed again without anyone to help you.”

 

“I’ll be alright,” Marya said, “My hotel isn't far.”

 

“Please,” the man persuaded, “At least for my own peace of mind.”

 

Marya sighed, “Thank you,” she said, taking his offered arm. She noticed he still didn't have a coat, and she realized that it was probably the one draped around her shoulders.

 

“No no, you keep it my dear, at least until we get you indoors,” the old man insisted when she tried to offer it back it him.

 

“Thank you,” she said, “You’re the nicest person I've talked to all day.”

 

The man laughed softly and they continued until they reached Marya’s hotel. She declined to let him walk her up to her room, not wanting a stranger to know exactly where she was staying. He seemed to understand and finally accepted his coat back.

 

He tipped his hat to her, “Try and get some rest dear. A pretty girl like you should keep herself healthy. Your husband will thank you for it,” he said, then walked off before Marya could think of a response.

 

Now what?

 

* * *

 

Wanda and Pietro were born on a stormy Thursday morning. Marya had gone into labor late the night before, and the old lady who lived across from her in 7C, Mrs. Svoboda, had stayed with her all night, acting as midwife. Marya laid down on the floor, a few towels under her, so she didn't ruin any furniture. The storm had raged all night, so running out to fetch a doctor was out of the question.

 

Pietro came first, pale enough to be concerning for a minute or two before they figured out that it was just his colouring. Twelve minutes later, Wanda followed her brother into the world. They both screamed and fussed, but calmed the minute they were put against their mother’s breast.

 

“There now,” Mrs. Svoboda said, mopping up the blood on Marya’s thighs, “Two healthy babies if I ever saw them. Shame their daddy ran off on them.”

 

“Yes, it is,” Marya panted, eyes not leaving the two still slightly slimy babies in her arms. She wasn't quite sure they were real, that they were really here with her.

 

Finding out she’d been pregnant had been an ordeal. They were Erik’s obviously, but she’d waffled on what to do about it. Abortions were illegal and dangerous, and sometimes didn't even work. The orphanages were understaffed and overfull, and they might not take a Roma child at all. In the end, she decided to keep her babies, maybe claim a family she could finally call all her own.

 

Marya hadn't gone back to the community when she’d found out, knowing that she’d only be shunned even more. She had, however, run into Charani and a few other women in the market place. It had been around her seventh month, when her belly was extremely obvious and she was unable to hide it, especially in the warm weather.

 

“Oh, you stupid girl,” Charani had said, shaking her head, “Look what you’ve done to yourself.”

 

Marya had very nearly slapped her.

 

She’d moved into an apartment across town, using some of the money she had. Marya had taken on any translating work she could, even when her pregnancy exhausted her. The plan was to eventually have enough to establish herself in America and leave Europe and all it’s bad memories behind. She had actually saved enough by the time the twins were born, but she didn't look forward to having the babies on a boat, or in a foreign country she’d only just moved to, so she’d decided to postpone her emigration.

 

Marya was glad she’d made that decision, if only for the help of Mrs. Svoboda, “Thank you,” she rasped, “You’ve been a great help.”

 

“Think nothing of it, child,” the old woman said, tipping a glass of water to her lips, “You’re not the first woman I've helped through this kind of thing you know.”

 

Marya drank gratefully. She could feel herself slipping into unconsciousness and tried to fight against it, “Now now, go to sleep,” Mrs. Svoboda admonished, “Your body needs the rest, especially after twins. I'll get them cleaned and bundled up, don't you worry about a thing.”

 

She didn't want to sleep and leave her precious babies unprotected from the cruel world, but it was a losing battle anyway. Marya drifted off into an exhausted sleep, praying that things would be alright when she awoke.

 

Things were fine when Marya woke up; her babies were still healthy and nothing bad had happened, aside from the two of them fussing for milk.

 

“You’ve made quite the pair,” Mrs. Svoboda said, fixing some sandwiches for a late lunch while Marya fed her two hungry children, “The little boy is as white as paper.”

 

Marya hummed in response, only barely paying attention. Pietro was indeed very pale, and it was especially evident next to Wanda, who was darker even than Marya. She accepted the sandwiches when Mrs. Svoboda insisted, but it was hard to eat and nurse two babies at the same time.

 

“You’ll figure it out,” Mrs. Svoboda said, “I’ll keep you company while you get your strength back up, don’t worry about that.”

 

“Thank you, that means a lot,” Marya said, smiling at the old woman.

 

She hadn't been friendly to her neighbors at first, planning to leave the country as soon as she got the money and just too damn fed up with people to want to interact with anyone. When it became more obvious that she was expecting, Mrs. Svoboda had calmly slotted herself into Marya’s life, wanting to help her bring her babies safely into the world.

 

“You’re very lucky, most twins have complications,” Mrs. Svoboda said, “I've known only very few women who’ve had healthy twins without a doctor intervening.”

 

“Guess I’m just lucky,” Marya said, although the irony of that statement wasn't lost on her.

 

Mrs. Svoboda laughed, “So you’ll be off to America soon then, hm?”

 

“Yes, as soon as these two are big enough to survive the trip,” Marya said. When the twins had finally suckled their fill, Marya burped them as she’d been taught and put them down to rest, “I’ve already got a job as a translator lined up, and I’m looking for houses in the area.”

 

“Smart girl,” Mrs. Svoboda said, “I think you’ll be one of the ones that actually makes it.”

 

Marya smiled down at her sleeping babies, “For their sake, I hope you’re right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I realize that several characters here are pretty rotten at times, and many of these characters are Roma. **This is not because Roma are terrible people, this is for plot reasons.** I tried to stay accurate to historical and cultural attitudes towards women, marriage, and mental health. I don't mean to stereotype a people or cast anyone in a bad light based on a racial bias. If anyone has any suggestions, I'm all ears.
> 
> Bride Price; in Roma culture, the groom gives the bride's family a gift of money when he marries her. This is not to 'buy' the girl from her father, but to compensate for the loss of a daughter.
> 
> Roma do not officially enter adulthood until they marry, according to what I've read.
> 
> Roma in Czechoslovakia; During the Soviet years, there were several campaigns to 'settle' nomadic cultures, including the Roma. In Czechoslovakia, the Roma were and are still regarded badly (interestingly, in Russia, the Roma were quite well liked for their music, and it's often still played at weddings. The Ruski Roma are considered some of the best educated Roma. The Czech Roma are considered the worst educated and most at risk for poverty).
> 
> Pliashka Ceremony; an engagement celebration in which the father of the groom welcomes the bride into the family by embrace and a special kind of wine is drunk. A necklace of gold coins is placed around the bride's neck to signify that she is spoken for.
> 
> Purity; I went into this last chapter, but purity and family are extremely important to Roma. If a woman becomes impure by sex out of wedlock, she brings shame to her entire family (as far as I know). However, this was/is common with many cultures that have patriarchal systems.


	3. Prologue II: Mystique

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the last of the Prologue phase of the fic. Next chapter we'll get into the real fic.
> 
> The reason I included such a long-ass prologue cut up into two parts and three chapters was because I wanted there to be context for later chapters that would be hard to do in flashback or exposition. So that's why you get these.
> 
> EDIT: So apparently Kurt's birthday is in November, and I wrote it as December. I'm lucky that it's still a winter month, so it'll only take a quick adjustment.

When Raven left the beach with Erik and the other Hellfire Club members, she hadn't really been prepared for the world. Charles had kept her sheltered out of some old-fashioned notion of brotherly protection—which she resented to this day. She hadn't been thinking about that though, all that she wanted was to follow Erik into the abyss, and protect mutant kind from a world that feared them.

 

For a short time, Erik was both her lover and her teacher, and she became swept up in the romance of it all. However, it quickly became clear to her that Erik was emotionally distant, and was not giving her what she really needed. Instead of forcing things, Raven, now Mystique, had moved on.

 

She hadn't really expected to move on into Azazel’s arms.

 

She probably should have; they were similar on a level that none of the others were. They both shared an alien look that even Angel couldn't comprehend. Not even Hank had connected with her the same way Azazel had.

 

Their ‘romance’ started slowly, evolving over months and years. Mystique could remember clearly the beginning of their strange dance.

 

She had been training in the gym of the safe house Emma had brought them to. It was several weeks after she’d called it quits with Erik, and she was working out her frustration on the punching bag when Azazel sauntered in. He watched her for a moment and she spied him out of the corner of her eye. He was hard to miss, ignore, looking the way he did, but she really couldn’t claim that her natural form was any better.

 

Suddenly there was a concussive noise and an accompanying cloud of smoke, and Azazel was in front of her, holding the bag steady.

 

“You should learn to use kicks as well as punches,” he said, grinning and flashing sharp white teeth, “You are very flexible. Would be good for you to learn.”

 

Mystique narrowed her eyes at him, “Offering to teach me?” she asked, resuming her punching.

 

Azazel held the bag with surprising strength for such a lean frame, “If you want,” he said.

 

Mystique went silent for a minute, continuing her routine, thinking it over. Azazel had proven several times already that he was their best hand-to-hand fighter, even without his teleportation. He preferred knives, but even still she had seen that he was adept with only his fists and body (Mystique’s preferred method). Though they had separated as lovers, Erik was still her teacher, but that didn't mean he had to have a monopoly over her.

 

Resolved, Mystique finished her workout and nodded at him, “Teach me.”

 

Azazel grinned again and led her to the sparring mats. Mystique followed him and dropped into a fighting stance.

 

“Unwrap your hands,” Azazel instructed.

 

Mystique raised an eyebrow at him, dropping her stance, “Isn't the wrap to protect my hands from getting too bloody?”

 

Azazel chuckled, “Yes, but you must learn to deal with the pain. In a real fight, there is no wrap to protect you.”

 

Mystique frowned, but he had a point. She unwrapped her hands and turned to face him again.

 

“No powers, not yet,” Azazel promised, “But other than that, I will not go easy on you.”

 

Mystique nodded and braced herself, ready for anything he could throw at her. She wasn't a good a fighter as he was, but Erik had trained her well, she could take it.

 

Azazel proceeded to beat her mercilessly until she could hardly stand.

 

“Not so bad for a first time,” Azazel said, leaning over her sprawled body, “In time, you will be better than me.”

 

Mystique glared up at him, panting too hard to make any kind of comeback. He’d hurt her quite a lot, but not badly enough that rest wouldn't take care of it. Groaning, Mystique tried to roll over and stand up to go to the showers.

 

A hand was suddenly in her face. Azazel smiled smugly down at her, offering his hand to help her up. Mystique glared at him again, but took the hand. She was probably in too bad a shape to get up on her own.

 

With a surprising amount of gentleness, Azazel supported her weight and brought her to the showers. He gingerly washed her, careful of the bruises he had just beaten into her flesh only minutes before.

 

Mystique must have fallen asleep under the heat of the showers and his gentle ministrations, because the next thing she knew, she was being carried through the halls of the safe house.

 

“The Sleeping Beauty awakes,” Azazel chuckled, the rumble of it traveling through his chest, which she was braced against, bridal style.

 

“You bastard,” Mystique hissed, finding her voice again, “You said you would teach me, not beat me to a bloody pulp.”

 

Azazel hummed, “But you learned, did you not?”

 

“Learned what? How to get my ass kicked?” Mystique sneered. It would have been more effective if she wasn't being carried in his arms like a child.

 

Azazel stopped at her room and opened the door with his tail. Ducking inside, he laid her down on her bed, then sat down next to her, “You learned that fighting _hurts_ , that you will not win every battle, and to not drop your left so much,” he said, pulling the covers up around her perpetually nude form.

 

Mystique rolled her eyes, “Some lesson. I’m not going to be able to move for a week.”

 

“Hm, I say three days at most. You heal quickly,” Azazel said, “So, rest and get your strength back up, Myshka, and we will do this again next week.”

 

With that, he got up and left her room, tail swishing behind him. Still exhausted from the ordeal, Mystique fell asleep shortly after.

 

* * *

 

They continued on like that for months; every week Azazel would offer to spar with her, and every week he beat her senseless, then took care of her. Erik disapproved of it at first, and Mystique had wished that he wouldn't go quite as hard as he did on her, but the protests dried up when it became clear that it was working. Each time, Mystique would last a little longer against him, and get a few more blows in. She was figuring out her own rhythm, her own style of fighting, and she was quickly improving under Azazel’s harsh guidance.

 

Several months after their first fight, Mystique was once again on the sparring mats with Azazel, trying to land a hit and duck out fast enough to dodge his counter.

 

A fist buried itself into her ribs, but she only barely flinched. Since they started fighting, she’d also learned how to take hits better. In a fight, you were going to get hit, not matter how hard you tried not to.

 

Ducking close, she jabbed three quick strikes into his diaphragm, hoping to wind him a little. Azazel grunted, but kept coming at her. He swung his right around, going for her face (she still had a habit of dropping her left). Almost in slow motion, Mystique lunged forward and grabbed his neck, falling backwards and dragging him down. Surprised, he pitched forward, nearly falling on top of her if not for the way she planted her feet in his stomach. Using his momentum, she rolled onto her back and launched him over her, sending him crashing to the ground with a dull thud.

 

Wasting no time, Mystique jumped on top of him, straddling his chest and pinning his arms down with her knees. Too high on adrenaline to slow down, she started punching, not wildly, but precisely, aiming for Azazel’s face. Her fist connected with his cheekbone a total of five times before he was gone, disappeared from under her in a cloud of smoke.

 

Azazel reappeared across the gym, leaning against the wall. He was cradling his jaw, feeling if it was broken. Finding nothing, he turned to her and grinned. A gash had split open his cheek which was now bleeding down his face and dripping to the floor and his chest, “Now you are _really_ learning, Myshka,” he said, elated.

 

Mystique blinked, head still swirling with the urge to fight. After a moment, her head cleared enough to realize what she’d done.

 

Mystique puffed out her chest, “You deserved that and more, you piece of shit,” she snarled.

 

Azazel laughed, “Just so,” he said, sauntering up to her. Mystique was pleased to see that he was a little wobbly, “But now it’s time for you to help me, yes? Just as I helped you.”

 

“I’m _not_ bathing you,” she hissed.

 

Azazel laughed, fangs flashing under the florescent light, “Well, you can at least help me patch this,” he said, gesturing to his split cheek, “Another scar to add to the collection.”

 

Mystique looked down at the gash along Azazel’s cheek. She felt the sting in her knuckles and sighed, “Fine, I need to practise stitches anyway.”

 

“Good enough for me,” Azazel said with a shrug. He followed behind Mystique as she turned to get the first aid kit.

 

Five minutes later, they were seated in the changing room attached to the gym while Mystique stitched the two inch long gash shut. Azazel had taken off his shirt, annoyed by the sticky blood, and for the first time, Mystique could see that he was covered in tattoos and scars.

 

Azazel noticed her noticing, “I got most of these in the gulag,” he said, gesturing to his chest. Intricate symbols and jagged scars ran criss-cross over his torso, overlapping in places. Some scars went over tattoos while others went under, creating a kind of grotesque timeline.

 

“The scars or the tattoos?” Mystique asked, finishing up another stitch.

 

“Both,” Azazel answered, “I was a favourite of the others to beat. There was one guard who liked wips.”

 

Mystique’s hands stilled for a moment, “I’m sorry,” she said, in lieu of anything else to say.

 

Azazel shrugged, “I learned how to fight,” he said, “I got very good at losing, but eventually I learned how to win.”

 

“What got you put in the gulag?” Mystiques asked, curious.

 

“I don’t know. I was too young to remember. I think I might have been born there,” Azazel answered.

 

Mystique finished the last stitch and sat back, “That’s awful,” she said.

 

Azazel hummed, “I suppose,” he said, standing up and going to the mirror to inspect her work, “Not bad. Little crooked, but not bad. You should keep practising, Myshka.” He turned to her and grinned.

 

Mystique, a little jarred by his revelation, smiled back, for lack of anything better to do.

 

* * *

 

They had moved three times before Erik was captured.

 

It was meant to be a simple mission, but it had quickly gone sideways. The original plan had been to threaten the president, but after discovering that the president was one of them, a mutant, the mission had changed to ‘protect the president at all costs’.

 

In case you’re wondering, it didn’t go well.

 

“So what do we do now?” Angel asked, wings flittering behind her as she nervously paced around.

 

“Nothing,” Emma said loftily, “We’re down a leader, so we head our separate ways.”

 

“What about the mission?” Mystique said, “We can’t just abandon it.”

 

Emma regarded her with an air of disdain. Mystique had long suspected that Emma was jealous of the fact that Mystique had found her way to Erik’s bed and she hadn’t. Emma was not one to take lightly to being second place.

 

“A movement needs a strong leader, and I fail to see one among us,” Emma said.

 

Janos scoffed, “You’re smart and power hungry, why don’t you lead us?”

 

Emma laughed and flicked her hair, and Mystique hated her even more, “Oh sugar, I’m not the leading type.”

 

Mystique bristled, “Yeah, well maybe _I_ am,” she said, suddenly standing up.

 

Emma laughed again, “Now that’s just cute,” she said.

 

Some very nasty words were on the tip of Mystiques tongue when Azazel stood next to her, “I think she can do it,” he said, “She has potential.”

 

Emma sneered, but Janos and Angel looked like they were on the verge of being won over, “Oh please,” Emma hissed, “She’s much too young and has no experience. She couldn’t possibly lead us.”

 

“I can try, which is a lot more than anyone could say about you,” Mystique snapped back.

 

Emma looked taken aback, not used to being talked back to. Angel pitched in, “She’s already lead some successful missions.”

 

The blonde woman turned and glared so hard at Angel that Mystique nearly expected her to shatter. Janos looked like he wanted to step in, but didn’t want to step in front of an enraged telepath with a mean streak.

 

Emma finally backed down. With one last toss of her platinum hair, she said—“Well, you're going to have to do this without me,”—before walking out of their temporary safe house.

 

Janos breathed a sigh of relief and looked to Mystique, “So? Now what?”

 

Mystique felt something curl in her belly, “We continue the mission. We try to find out who assassinated the president and figure out who’s targeting mutants.”

 

“If’s it’s not the government, who is it?” Angel asked rhetorically.

 

“We stay in the shadows. No more displays,” Mystique said. Erik, though a great leader, was a tad theatrical at times, “Our first priority is to help mutants.”

 

The others nodded their agreement. Azazel put a hand on her shoulder, his touch warm and almost comforting. Mystique took a deep breath and started planning their next move.

 

* * *

 

Several weeks after Erik was captured and Emma left, Azazel and Mystique were once again trying their hardest to beat the shit out of each other. They didn’t have a gym anymore, so they were just outside on the grass. The farmhouse the Azazel had found for them was a little out in the middle of nowhere, and certainly not as nice as the places Emma found for them, but it was home for now.

 

Azazel had moved her up to fighting with their powers, which put him at an advantage, since her powers were more suited to espionage and sneaking around, rather than fighting. However, she was learning how to subtly shift her body as she moved to get out of tight spots and add a boost of power or weight where she needed it. She’d never known she could do half the things she was now doing almost on the fly. She wanted to be angry (with Charles, with the world that feared her, with herself), but she was just too excited to learn more about herself to be mad.

 

Mystique lunged, flinging her entire body into it. As she understood her body and powers more, her fighting evolved along with it. She moved much more gracefully now, twisting into ways that shouldn’t have been comfortable, but she could hold with ease.

 

Azazel teleported away, nearly causing her to lose her balance. Mystique righted herself just in time to feel him behind her. Lashing out with a kick, she caught him in the stomach, feeling the reverberation up her leg. He was almost solid muscle, which made him harder to knock down, but she was smaller and harder to hold onto.

 

Grunting, Azazel stumbled back, stunned by her kick. Seizing the opportunity, Mystique lept up and caught his neck between her thighs. Twisting her body, she flung them both at the ground, pinning him.

 

Azazel chuckled, though it was choked off. He ran a hand up her thigh, making Mystique tense, but the touch was more caressing, not gripping. He glanced up at her and grinned.

 

“Well, if this is how I die, what a way to go,” he purred.

 

Mystique jolted, and it was just enough for Azazel to flip them over, so she was on her back and he was looming over her. Or he would be looming, if her thighs weren’t still draped over his shoulders.

 

Azazel purred again and licked his lips, eyeing her lasciviously. Normally, Mystique would have bristled and kicked him (maybe snapped his neck), but with Azazel, she felt a shiver run through her.

 

Azazel raised an interested eyebrow, blue eyes blowing black. He brought both hands up and rubbed her thighs, inhaling deeply. Mystique bit her lip and morphed away the slight coverings she kept over her genitals and breasts. Azazel wasted no time and dove to taste her.

 

Mystique moaned, spreading her legs wider for him. Azazel pressed his tongue deeper and her hands flew to his hair, clutching at the black locks. Ever since she’d called it off with Erik, her own fingers had been her only intimate companions. Azazel’s sudden interested was entirely welcome, and Mystique reveled in his attentions.

 

Hoisting her up higher for a better angle, Azazel groaned and continued eating her out, their sparring match forgotten. Mystique thrashed a little, pressing him further down, trying to chase her own pleasure. Abruptly, Azazel pulled away and dropped her back down to the grass.

 

A shadow fell over Mystique as he leaned forward, his hips slotting between her legs, his arms bracing her head, “Myshka,” he panted, lips shiny, “I want to take you.”

 

“Yes,” Mystique answered without hesitation.

 

Grinning, Azazel quickly undid his pants enough to free his cock. After some repositioning, he pressed inside of her, making her cry out. They weren’t far enough away from the house that someone wouldn’t hear them, so Azazel leaned down and kissed her. Mystique immediately opened her mouth to him, pressing her tongue passed his lips. It slid along his teeth, catching on one of his fangs and slicing open.

 

Azazel groaned and thrusted into her faster, spurred by the taste of her blood and her slick. Mystique dragged her fingernails across his back and shoulders, calling up red welts even through his shirt. They broke the kiss, panting, Azazel ducking to lick and suck at her neck, scraping his teeth along her scales.

 

Neither of them lasted long, too keyed up from their fight. When it was over, Azazel collapsed on top of her, uncaring if he squished her. Mystique tolerated it for the ten or so minutes it took for her brain to reboot, then she drove her elbow into his ribs to shove him off.

 

A tug at her ankle made her notice that his tail was curled around it. She looked down at him and raised an eyebrow.

 

Azazel shrugged, “It’s got a mind of it’s own sometimes,” was all he said. He unwound it from her and let it flick back behind him and he sprawled across the grass.

 

Mystique debated getting up, but eventually just laid back down next to him. The afternoon sun glittered through the canopy of leave above them, making the light dance across their oddly coloured skin.

 

They stayed that way for nearly an hour, in silence. The wetness between her legs dried and became tacky and uncomfortable, but Mystique didn’t feel like getting up. Azazel clearly felt the same way, apparently having a nap under the sunshine, tail flicking like a large red cat.

 

“So, what are we?” Mystique asked, knowing that he wasn’t really asleep.

 

Azazel stretched, shoulders popping as he did, “Do we have to be anything?”

 

Mystique smiled a little, “I suppose we don’t.”

 

* * *

 

Janos was the next of them to perish.

 

It was quite jarring really, since Riptide was nearly a skilled a fighter as Azazel, and had the most offensive powers out of the remaining four of them. Janos could hold his own in a fight, even without his powers, and had proven so several times. His death was a shock to them all.

 

They hadn’t even been on mission, but in another safe house that Azazel had scraped up for them. They were deep within a city, in one of the poorest neighborhoods, where people turned a blind eye if they saw something suspicious and were tight-lipped around authorities. It wasn’t perfect, but they were relatively protected. Or so they thought.

 

In the middle of the night, the door slammed in, kicked down by jackbooted thugs. Mystique lept out of bed, groggy with sleep but ready to fight. Next to her, Azazel was already shimmying into his pants, grabbing his favoured blade from the nightstand.

 

The thugs came down on them hard, and Mystique new that they wouldn’t win if they tried to take them all down. Their body-armor was military grade, and they certainly didn’t seem trigger shy.

 

“Az! Get us out of here!” she shouted.

 

Azazel grabbed her and lashed his tail out to grab Angel’s wrist. He was reaching for Janos when the shot went off. Janos pitched forward, red blooming across his chest. Angel screamed and Azazel cursed, and the next moment they were sprawling across a cement parking lot.

 

“What the hell was that? Who the hell were those guys?” Angel fluttered up, too anxious to hide her wings.

 

“That doesn’t matter now. We have to move,” Mystique told her, standing up straight and trying to process things. She tried to remember if there were any identifying marks on the thugs gear, something she could use to track them down.

 

“I can get us to a temporary place. Probably not watched too closely,” Azazel said, “Won’t be good for more than a night or two, but for now.”

 

“Take us,” Mystique commanded, reaching her hand out for Azazel to take.

 

Azazel took it and gave it a squeeze, the only comfort they could afford for now. Angel stepped back when he reached for her, “What about Janos?” she asked.

 

“Useless to go back for him,” Azazel said, “If he’s not dead, he will be soon. We’d only get ourselves captured or killed.”

 

Mystique’s heart clenched, but she knew that Azazel was right, “We have to go Angel,” she said, taking on a more soothing tone, “We’re not far away from the house enough to be safe here.”

 

Angel looked like she wanted to argue more, but held her tongue. She took Azazel’s hand and they disappeared in a cloud of smoke. It was just the three of them now.

 

* * *

 

Mystique started noticing something was off with her powers first. She’d become attuned to every bit of her body when she shifted, and she knew when something wasn’t forming properly. When she shifted, she could sense that some of her organs weren’t shifting with the rest of her.

 

It was disconcerting at first, but they were still on the run from the thugs. They didn’t have any leads on who they were, but Mystique’s guess was some government, either Russian, American, or perhaps even the UK. In any case, there was no time for her to think of a few organs that didn’t want to cooperate. Her outside was shifting just fine, and that was the important thing.

 

Next came the vomiting. At about five AM each morning, Mystique would bolt out of bed to empty her stomach into whatever receptacle was available. She would be fine the rest of the day, without even the slightest hint of nausea, so it was unlikely to be any kind of food poisoning.

 

Mystique was starting to get frustrated with her body when she suddenly realized that she hadn’t gotten her period in a long time. Due to the nature of her powers, her menstrual cycle had always been erratic and unpredictable, but it had never gone on this long before. She wanted to think that it was just stress, but piled on top of everything else, Mystique suspected something else.

 

She didn't want to think about it, but she’d learned that things like this couldn't be pushed away. So, when she had a few hours to herself, Mystique sat down on her bed and let the world fall away around her. She took a deep breath and turned her focus inwards, trying to find the source of her body’s oddity.

 

As a shapeshifter, Mystique had total and complete control over every cell in her body, and she was learning to use that for more than shapeshifting. She was learning how to speed up or slow down her metabolism, control her organs, and even heal faster. It was imperfect, but she was learning. Now, she wanted to try and figure out what was making her so sick, so she fixed her attention on the organs that wouldn’t shift.

 

It was really only the one organ that refused to budge. Her uterus had had no trouble shifting and disappearing completely in the past, but now it refused to move even an inch. Fearing the worst, Mystique tried to subtly shift it, at least move it around a little, but her powers refused to cooperate.

 

Trying a different tactic, Mystique focussed on feeling every twitch and pulse of her uterus. It was a muscle, which made things much easier, but it took her a long time to fully feel it. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, or she suspected at least, but she wasn’t sure how she would find it.

 

Her question was answered, however, when she suddenly felt the smallest of movements within her. She could feel her other organs move, as they did all the time, but this movement didn’t originate in her. Something was inside of her, wiggling around independant of her.

 

She was pregnant.

 

The shock of realization was so intense that her attention snapped and she came back into herself. The sudden quiet of the room disoriented her for a moment, so she lay back down on the bed, trying to wrap her head around everything.

 

She was pregnant.

 

She was going to have a baby.

 

She was going to be a _mother_.

 

She was on the run from a shadow organization that wanted to kill or torture her and/or possibly all of mutantkind.

 

Placing a hand over her belly, Mystique felt the intense desire to protect the little thing inside of her. It was barely a life yet, barely the potential of one, but already Mystique couldn’t stand the thought of it being in any danger.

 

However, she couldn’t just _abandon_ the mission. They had all worked so hard to get to where they were. Then again, a break might shake the thugs off their tail. They could use some time to rest and train and recuperate. And besides, it wasn’t as if Azazel and Angel needed to take a break from missions altogether, just enough so as not to be noticeable.

 

Feeling a little bit better, Mystique sat up and went to the kitchen to fix herself something to eat. For a moment, she missed Janos, who was an excellent cook and always used fresh ingredients. She felt a little guilty, but she hoped that the bullet had killed him quickly and that he hadn’t been tortured or experimented on.

 

* * *

 

Telling Azazel about the baby was turning into a debacle. Mystique wanted to tell him, but it never seemed like the right time. On top of that, as much as she had grown to care for Azazel, she couldn’t really picture him being a father. He was a fighter with a slight cruel streak and a lot of contained violence, and Mystique couldn’t see that translating well to parenthood. Even thouh he was loving with her, these instances were interspersed with the two of them fighting roughly and him goading her into a reaction, not seeming to care if that reaction was positive or negative.

 

More than that even, he was a killer. Both Mystique and Angel had never needed to kill, because Azazel always took it upon himself to kill when they needed to. Mystique had never mastered reading him, and she still couldn’t tell if he did it because he wanted to spare them, or if it was because he just liked killing.

 

In any case, Mystique waffled on whether or not to tell him at all. He would figure it out eventually, but if she didn’t tell him directly, he would likely assume she didn’t want him to be involved. On the other hand, he might become angry with her, and didn’t he have a right to know? To decide if he wanted to be a part of this (more so than he already had been)?

 

So Mystique took her time in telling Azazel. He was getting suspicious of her, but he never asked what was on her mind. That wasn’t how they worked.

 

“Let’s have a little fun, Myshka,” he purred, cornering her in the kitchen one night, “Angel is asleep, and we haven’t fought in a while.” He leaned in close and ran his hands up her thighs and buttocks.

 

Mystique shivered, feeling her inner thighs clench a little at the idea, but she pushed him away. She couldn’t get into one of their brutal fights just now, not with the way he tended to hit her in the stomach.

 

“No,” she said firmly, pushing him back by the chest, “I don’t want to.”

 

Azazel moved back at her request, but raised an eyebrow, “So prude lately,” he goaded, “What’s the matter? Tired of having a devil in you bed?”

 

Mystique rolled her eyes and tried to slip around him. Azazel caught her wrist and spun her back to him so they were chest to chest.

 

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, voice low like a growl, “I don’t like to be ignored.”

 

“Well that’s you’re problem,” Mystique said, shoving away from him.

 

Azazel huffed, tail lashing in annoyance, but he stopped harassing her after that, choosing instead to ignore her. Mystique found that she didn't really care that much. She was resourceful and smart, and she could protect herself and her baby just fine if she needed to.

 

So she thought.

 

It was four days after the incident in the kitchen when they were attacked. Mystique wasn't sure how they found them, but they attacked in the dead of night, as was their style.

 

Mystique was lucky this time around; she was already awake, her morning sickness having occurred closer to three in the morning. She was getting herself a glass of water from the kitchen to rinse out her mouth when she saw movement from the window. A cold chill ran up her spine and made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Luckily for her, the lights were all still off, masking her movements. Slowly, she moved across the house, heading for Angel’s room.

 

“Angel,” she hissed, shaking the other girl awake, “We have to move, get up.”

 

By now, Angel was good at reading the atmosphere. Quietly, she got up and grabbed her bag. She’d learned to keep all of the things she wanted to take with her in a backpack all the time, so she didn't have to scramble to pack or leave things behind.

 

Mystique heard the front door creak open and swore, “Stay quiet, we’ll get Azazel and teleport out of here,” she whispered.

 

“How do they keep finding us?” Angel asked as that tip-toed down the hall to Azazel’s room.

 

“I don't know, but we can figure it out later,” Mystique said. She opened the door to azazel’s room, only to find it empty.

 

“Shit!” she hissed, still keeping her voice low. She tried to think of where he might be. Possibly out for a walk, in another part of the house, or maybe halfway around the world, abandoning them to their fate.

 

“What now?” Angel questioned, keeping an eye out down the hallway.

 

Mystique scrambled to think of something. Azazel’s room faced a steep decline, so it was unlikely that there were any thugs outside his window, “Out the window, hurry!”

 

Mystique pushed Angel through first. She quickly followed, and made to head down the decline, but Angel stopped and went back to the window.

 

“What are you doing?” she hissed, slipping on the wet grass as she tried to climb back up and drag Angel with her.

 

“Lighting the place up. Maybe We can barbeque these _culos_ and stop them from following us,” Angel said. She blew a fireball into the room, right near the old fashioned, gas-powered radiator.

 

The metal pipe quickly melted under the intense heat and the resulting explosion sent the two girls tumbling down the hill. Mystique, in better shape from having been further from the blast, coughed and tried to make sense of her surroundings. The house, a wooden cottage, was quickly going up in flames. The sounds of men yelling brought Mystique back to herself.

 

She reached over and slapped Angel, “What were you thinking? We could have been caught in that!”

 

Angel, temporarily blinded by the flash, struggled to her feet, “We g-gotta move,” she said. There was a gash across her forehead where some debris had grazed her.

 

Mystique grabbed Angel’s arm and dragged her into the woods. She cursed the other girl a little bit more in her head as they moved through the trees; the forest was rather sparse in this area and the burning house lit up the dark night. Mystique tried to head them towards the deeper forest, but she heard a shout behind them and then a spray a bullets tore through the trees next to their heads.

 

“Fuck! Run!” Mystique shouted, morphing her skin darker to hide better. She tightened her grip on Angel’s wrist, but tripped over a root and went tumbling through the brush.

 

Angel, in a panic, having lost sight of Mystique, flew upwards, trying to hide in the tree tops. Her wings caught the light, however, and the glittering brought the attention of the thugs, able to see from the top of the hill. A few shots, and Angel fell to the ground with a pained cry.

 

Mystique readied herself to leap to where Angel had fallen, but hesitated. If she jumped up to defend Angel, she wasn’t just putting herself in danger, but her child as well. However, she couldn’t just leave her, and prepared herself.

 

Her hesitation cost her, however, and the thugs descended on Angel before she could reach her. Angel screamed and fought, but there was the sound of a taser, and all went quiet.

 

“Where’s the other one?” one of the thugs asked, “There were two of them.”

 

“Probably ran off,” another thug said, “Search the area and bag this one. She’ll go to the facility for testing.”

 

“I’ll radio it in,” the third one said. He took out a large walkie-talkie and clicked it on with a beep, “This is team Gamma calling in to Project Wideawake, we’ve taken down one target. Lost visual on the second target, no sign of the third. Requesting pickup for target.”

 

Mystique tried to creep closer. If she could get the drop on them, she could maybe take all three out, and get Angel further into the woods before anyone else could come. On the ground, Angel moaned and stirred slightly. One of the thugs leaned down and jammed his taser right into her chest, laughing as Angel convulsed violently.

 

As Mystique prepared to jump, the sound of approaching boots, stopped her. Two more thugs came from the trees, “Can’t get the car down here, we’re gonna have to carry it.”

 

There were a few groans, but two thugs leaned down and grabbed Angel’s by the arms and hauled her up. They dragged her unconscious body along, her shins scraping against the rough ground. The three not holding her all put their hands on their weapons, scanning the the darkness for any movement.

 

Mystique cursed and tried to follow at a distance, keeping herself small and dark, hoping to be mistaken for an animal if she was seen. She wracked her brain, trying to think of how to get Angel from them without getting herself killed.

 

The thugs were about to break through the trees; Mystique was running out of time. Swearing once again, she targeted the thug furthest to the back and copied his form. Striding up behind him, she prepared to take him out.

 

A branch cracked loudly under her foot, and the thug turned around. The split second heads up gave him enough time to shout before Mystique jammed her fist into his throat. Another thug turned and saw them tussle.

 

“Hey! What’s going on?” he shouted. The other thugs stopped and now all eyes were on her.

 

Cursing her luck, Mystique tossed away the unconscious thug. No matter how good she was, she couldn't morph herself to be carrying the weapons they all had, making it obvious that she was a fake. Someone shouted something at her and approached, his gun trained on her. She put her hands up and waited for him to get close enough. When he grabbed her, she jerked him around and twisted the pistol from his hand. Swinging him around in front of her, she put the gun to his temple and used him as a human shield.

 

“Put the girl down and back away, slowly,” Mystique demanded, dropping the guise of the unconscious thug, but keeping the height to appear more intimidating.

 

The two thugs carrying Angel dropped her, but reached for their own weapons. Mystique pulled the hammer back on the pistol, “One step and I blow his brains out,” she threatened. She didn't really like the idea of killing, but she was prepared to do so to save Angel.

 

“Drop the weapon!” a thug shouted at her.

 

“Step away from the girl!” Mystique demanded back. Where was a teleporting demon man when you needed him?

 

The men didn’t move or lower their weapons. Mystique growled and prepared to pull the trigger when her whole body jolted. The taser, she’d forgotten about the taser. As she convulsed, she had a moment of panic thinking about her unborn child, and what the effects of a high powered taser would do to it, before she blacked out.

 

She wasn’t out for long, but by the time she was coming back into herself, she and Angel were being dragged towards an armored van. Mystique willed her body to move, but the shock (ha) had been too much, and she couldn’t make herself cooperate. This was it, this was the end of the line.

 

Just before she passed out again, a familiar ‘bamf’ sounded off to her left. The thug on that side of her screamed and then everything went dark.

 

* * *

 

When Mystique woke again, she was in a bed, and her whole body felt like it had been out in a blender. Moaning from the pain, she tried to stay perfectly still and assess the damage.

 

Azazel appeared next to her, “Angel is gone,” he said, “I tried, but it was either you or her.”

 

Mystique ignored Azazel for now and assessed her surroundings. They were in another cottage, but it looked like this one was only one room. From the light outside, she had been out for either a full day or they were in a different time zone. It was colder out than she remembered, so they were probably much further north than they had been. Canada perhaps, or possibly Europe somewhere.

 

“We’re in Germany,” Azazel said, as though reading her thoughts.

 

Mystique glared at him, “Where the fuck were you?” she demanded.

 

“In town,” Azazel answered easily, “I couldn’t know we’d be attacked.”

 

“What the hell were you doing in town?” Mystique hissed, bristling.

 

Azazel shrugged, “Finding a warm body,” he said, “You were being frustrating.”

 

If she weren’t in excruciating pain, she might have punched him, “Don’t try to pin this on me,” she growled, “I’m not the one who didn’t say where he was going and get one of his teammates captured!” she finished with a yell.

 

Azazel’s eyes blazed, “And some leader you turned out to be!” he shouted back, “We put our trust in you and _this_ is how we are repaid!”

 

“I never asked for that!” Mystique shouted, sitting up in bed. She was about to say more, but the room spun and the next thing she new, she was sprawled across the floor, her head in Azazel’s lap.

 

“Stupid woman,” he growled down at her. They sat in a long silence before he started, “We have more information about them now. We can farm a plan of attack. If Angel is still alive, maybe we can rescue her.”

 

Mystique tried to think of something to say, “I’m pregnant,” she blurted. Well, there was that cat out of the bag.

 

Azazel paused, but otherwise didn’t react. Calmly, he lifted Mystique, just as gentle as the first time he’d carried her to bed after their first sparring match. He laid her down and pulled the blankets over her, then got up and went to the fireplace, where there was water boiling. He silently made a pot of tea, not looking at her at all. Mystique feared that he was working himself up to telling her that he didn't want any part of it, or worse, that he wanted her to get rid of it.

 

She agonized for a while, accepting her tea silently and trying to decipher his mood without looking like she was watching him like a hawk. He sipped his own tea in silence, sitting in the single chair in the cottage, the only other furniture aside from the bed. Mystique didn’t think place had been used in quite some time.

 

The tea finished, Azazel puttered around cleaning for a while, though there wasn’t much to do. He tended to the fire for a while, checked the wood (they had plenty), then finally sighed and stalked over to the bed.

 

“Move over,” he demanded, stripping out of his shoes, shirt, and pants, leaving him in only his boxers and undershirt.

 

Mystique scooted over as much as she could so she was pressed almost to the wall. Azazel climbed into bed with her, pressing himself against her back. He pulled the covers over them both with his tail and draped his arm over her, laying a hand against her flat stomach.

 

“Sleep, Myshka,” he said to the back of her neck, “You need to rest.”

 

Mystique let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding and relaxed, settling back against his chest. As always, he was warm against her, and he didn’t seem to mind her rough scales. They had a very difficult road ahead of them, but at least Mystique wasn’t alone.

 

* * *

 

The two of them spent the next few months in relative isolation. They were in a remote cabin in Germany, Mystique found out, with the closest civilization being an hour’s walk down the road. When she did go into town—via teleportation—she disguised herself as a plain woman with dark hair, anonymous aside from her growing belly.

 

Her pregnancy was progressing well, as far as either her or Azazel could tell. They didn’t want to risk going in to see a doctor, less he notice something odd. They couldn’t risk a doctor or midwife seeing something and talking to others about it, and from there alerting ‘Project Wideawake’ to their location.

 

Over the course of the months, their little cottage became more homey. It wasn’t the mansion she had grown up in, but over time it had acquired a table and a set of (better) chairs, a wardrobe, a better bed that was big enough for two to sleep on, and even an overstuffed armchair. Azazel had brought these things home in succession, though he’d never mentioned where he got them—Mystique never asked.

 

When Mystique was about five or six months into her pregnancy, she came home after a walk through the woods to the river to wash (there was an outhouse, but no real plumbing) to see a crib tucked into the corner of the room, close to the fireplace, but far enough away not to get in the way of anything or for anything to catch fire.

 

Mystique walked over to it, running her hand along the edge. It was an old fashioned iron crib, dented here and there, but sturdy. It was lined with soft, handmade blankets that would be great for the winter months when the baby would be born (they were guessing mid to late November). Mystique smiled; maybe Azazel wouldn’t be the best father, but he was trying at least, and she was grateful for that.

 

Azazel had been gentle with her these last few months, never suggesting a sparring match and always taking care of her first. He didn’t exactly pamper her, but he tried to do as much around the cottage as possible, without making her feel useless. He even seemed to be getting more affectionate with her, as much as Mystique figured he could be.

 

“What do you think of ‘Mary’?” Mystique asked one evening, as they laid together in bed.

 

Azazel was casually running his hand over her belly, feeling for the little kicks their child had started (and then never seemed to stop) doing a few weeks ago, “Who?”

 

Mystique elbowed him, “As a name. If it’s a girl?”

 

Azazel hummed, “Bad luck to pick a name before the baby is born,” he said, “Better to wait a week after the birth.”

 

“Never took you to be the superstitious type,” Mystique said, laughing a little.

 

Azazel shrugged, flicking his tail, “I was never religious, so I had to believe in something.”

 

Mystique laughed, “Alright, we’ll wait until he or she is born,” she acquiesced, “What about gender? What do you think it’ll be?”

 

“A boy or a girl,” Azazel said, “I don’t care.”

 

Mystique huffed, “What about colour? Red or blue?”

 

“Purple,” Azazel answered.

 

Mystique, unable to hold back anymore, laughed hysterically. Azazel chuckled, more amused by her amusement than anything else. She rolled over and leaned up for a kiss; when she couldn’t stretch herself all the way, he leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers.

 

The longer they stayed in their isolated world, the more Mystique felt distanced from the rest of the world. It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing; she’d been hunted and nearly killed several times in the last year alone. There was still the mission, but the ‘mission’ was only the two of them now, and Mystique had her child to think of as well. Could she get to the bottom of Project Wideawake, putting her own life at risk, _and_ raise a child?

 

For one moment, she considered going back to Charles. For all their disagreements, he would look after her child, and raise him with all of the protection that vast amounts of wealth and status could provide. It was tempting, but only for a moment. At this point in her life, she wasn’t ready to back to Charles, she wasn’t ready to forgive him.

 

So they stayed alone, the two of them. Azazel never brought up the mission, and Mystique never brought up leaving once the baby was born. It was like they lived inside a little bubble, safe from the whole world and all of the nastiness that she wanted so desperately to keep her baby from experiencing.

 

Nothing could last forever, however, and one cold night in November, it all came crashing down.

 

* * *

 

Mystique went into labour around midday in the middle of November, 1967. She’d been getting smaller cramps for the last few days, so it wasn’t much of a shock. Azazel was more high strung than she was, actually.

 

“Calm down, we’ll be fine,” Mystique said, watching the demon-man pace about, fussing with the furniture and the supplies they’d laid out.

 

“You can’t know that for sure,” he grumbled, fluffing the blankets in the crib for the eighth time.

 

Mystique rolled her eyes, “Well can you sit down anyway? Your freak out is going to freak me out, and then where will we be?”

 

Azazel paced around more, glancing out of the windows and straightening the chairs. His tail lashed behind him anxiously. When he checked the lock on the door for the fifth time, Mystique lost her patience.

 

“Az, seriously, could you not?” She sat up a little, but moaned and lay back again as another contraction wracked her body, “I know you’re paranoid, but I could really use your support here.”

 

Azazel grumbled some more, but pulled a chair up to the bed and sat down. He took her hand and let her squeeze it as the contraction wound down.

 

“I’m scared too,” she admitted quietly.

 

Azazel was silent, but squeezed her hand a little. His tail was still flicking about nervously, but having him close to her made her feel a little less alone.

 

As the day wore on, Mystique’s labour became more and more intense, but ultimately didn’t seem to be going anywhere. She was nowhere near ready to start pushing as the sun sank beneath the mountains.

 

“Maybe I should go for doctor,” Azazel said, mixing honey into some tea for her, “Take him at knifepoint and make him swear to keep his mouth shut.”

 

“No, we’re alright,” Mystique panted, now in a more constant state of pain, “I talked to the midwife, remember? She said that it can take a long time, especially for first children.”

 

Azazel growled, but helped her sip at the tea. They were both trying hard not to be anxious, but as day became night, they were both eager for the ordeal to be over.

 

Mystique moaned and twisted on the bed, trying to keep relaxed. It was just passed midnight now, and Azazel had fallen asleep, sitting up on the armchair, looking rather uncomfortable. She wanted to be mad at him, but honestly, if she could sleep right now, she would. What was it the midwife in the village had told her? Walking around would help progress labour.

 

Grunting, Mystique sat up and swung her legs off of the bed. Using the wall to support herself, she started to walk around. Not knowing what else to do, she went to the window and peered out.

 

A movement in the darkness caught her eye, and she had a horrible flashback to the night Angel had been taken. She reached over slowly and flicked off the lamp they had on. It was a clear night, a full moon, so she could see the approaching men. With them was a man from the village being dragged along. He was desperately trying to get away, but Mystique couldn’t think of what that meant right now.

 

“Az, wake up,” she demanded, shaking Azazel.

 

“Myshka?” he mumbled, sitting up, “Is it time? Is the baby almost here? Why are the lights off?”

 

“Project Wideawake is here,” she said, “Someone from the village pointed us out. I don’t know how they knew, but we have to go, now.”

 

Azazel was alert in an instant. He teleported to the window and peered out. He ‘ported back to her, “I’ll try and get us as far as I can, but,” he trailed off, “I don’t know what teleporting will do to you.”

 

Mystique put a hand on her still-contracting belly, “Just get us away. There’s an abandoned barn north east of here, you know it?”

 

Azazel nodded and took her hand. He managed to grab his coat, teleporting them away just as someone kicked the door down.

 

The world shifted and Mystique’s pain doubled. She screamed and collapsed into the snow. Azazel knelt next to her and grabbed her shoulders.

 

“No, I can’t,” she moaned, “I can’t do that again, Az.”

 

“It’s just here, we can go inside,” Azazel hauled her up and put her arm around his shoulders. They had landed a few feet from the back entrance to the barn, where it opened into a shadowed alcove of trees.

 

Azazel was about to open the back door when they noticed a light inside, “Someone is here,” he whispered. He put his eye to the crack in the door to get a better look.

 

He reeled back, nearly dropping them both into the snow, “It’s them,” he hissed, “Project Wideawake.”

 

“This must be where they set up their base,” Mystique panted.

 

Azazel growled, “We need to leave.” He gripped her tighter.

 

“No, don’t teleport us,” Mystique begged.

 

Azazel opened his mouth to argue, but another intense contraction ripped through her and she missed anything he might have said. Giving up, Azazel scooped her up into his arms and ran into the woods. The trees were denser here than the last place they had been ambushed, so it was easier to hide themselves, especially in the dark. There was also less snow on the ground, allowing Azazel to move fast.

 

Azazel ran for several minutes, heading towards the river, only stopping to check behind them every few meters or so. Mystique tried to keep her breathing even and regular, but when she felt something wet gush from her, accompanied by the overwhelming need to push, she gasped.

 

“Az, it’s time,” she said, gripping his collar, hating how scared she sounded.

 

Azazel let out a string of curses in Russian and set her down against a tree, clearing away the light dusting of snow. He knelt between her legs and gave her a nod.

 

Mystique waited for the next contraction to hit, nearly crying out from the pain as she pushed with all her strength. She fought desperately to keep quiet, praying that they were far enough away from the barn to not be heard. She lost track of time, and barely felt the cold. Instinct took over, and all she could think of was getting her baby out of her body.

 

What could have been hours or minutes later, something gave, and Mystique collapsed back into the rough bark of the tree. As she heaved, awareness came back to her, and she heard the pitiful whines of a baby, _her_ baby. Forcing herself to sit up, she looked at Azazel, who was still kneeling between her legs, a tiny body cradled in his hands.

 

The baby was blue, she noticed first, darker than her by maybe a shade, but definitely blue. A skinny tail curled and uncurled between two oddly-shaped feet. Three-fingers hands clenched and unclenched, and Mystique caught a glimpse of yellow when the baby opened it’s eyes.

 

Her baby was _beautiful_.

 

Tears streaming down her cheeks, Mystique reached for her baby. Azazel gently placed the squirming, whimpering thing into her arms, then shrugged out of his thick wool coat to keep the little thing warm.

 

“A boy,” he breathed, sounding as amazed as she felt, “Myshka, we have a son.”

 

Mystique laughed a little hysterically, “He’s beautiful,” she almost sobbed. His little tail curled around her wrist and she laughed again, “He’s got his Papa’s tail.”

 

Azazel chuckled, leaning in close to press his forehead to hers, “And his Mama’s eyes,” he said. He leaned in and kissed her, and Mystique couldn’t tell if he was crying or she was or they both were.

 

They stayed that way for several minutes, curled around their newborn son, shielding him from the cold wind that whistled through the trees. Mystique lowered him to her breast, letting him nurse his first meal. The placenta slid from her body, and Azazel chewed through the umbilical cord for lack of a knife (he’d forgotten to grab any in their hasty exit).

 

They couldn’t stay there forever, however, and they needed to find shelter soon, or they would all freeze to death. Azazel helped Mystique stand on shaking legs; she healed fast, but not that fast. He pulled her close and kissed her, careful not to squish their son between them. He smiled down at her, and Mystique noted that it was the first time she had ever seen him so genuinely happy.

 

The crack of gunfire exploded their quiet, happy little bubble, and Azazel fell to the ground with a pained yell.

 

“Az!” she cried, kneeling down. A dark red stain spread across his left side, hot and sticky.

 

Azazel cursed, clutching his side. Another shot rang out, but went wide. His shirt, Mystique realized, his shirt was bright in the darkness, too white for their surroundings, which had only a thin layer of snow.

 

“Run,” Azazel gritted out, blood seeping through his teeth, “Take him and run. I’ll hold them off.”

 

“Az, no,” she protested. She couldn’t lose him too.

 

Azazel pushed her away, “Myshka, go!” he barked, “Save our son!”

 

Unable to think of a way out of it, Mystique began to sob. Ducking her head, she kissed him one last time before she took off into the woods. More shots rang out, but none of them came near her. Her baby began to wail, but she couldn't slow down to soothe him.

 

She burst through the trees and nearly fell down an embankment. The frozen river, winding through the forest.

 

Thinking quickly, Mystique slid down the embankment and bolted across the ice. The winter hadn’t been that intense, and the ice was thin, but not thin enough to crack if she ran across quickly. The men chasing her, on the other hand, were all much too big to cross without falling through. If she could get to the other side, she would be safe, at least for the moment.

 

The river was a lot wider than she had initially estimated, however, and the opposite bank was much steeper and higher than the one she’d come from. Swearing, Mystique bundled her baby up nice and tight and managed to push him up onto the bank, slightly under a bush, and started climbing up the frozen wall.

 

Men crashed through the trees on the other side. One of them fell down the embankment and crashed through the ice. The others quickly spotted her and lifted their guns. Mystique had a split second to decide what to do. She could either keep climbing and risk getting herself, or worse, her child, shot, or she could take off down the river. The bank dipped slightly maybe ten or so meters down from her; if she could reach it, draw the guns away from her baby, and climb out of the river, she could double back through the trees to get her baby.

 

Making up her mind, Mystique took off down the river, leaving her baby on the bank, tucked under the bush. The bullets followed her, just like she wanted.

 

The last day of strain and stress took a toll on her, however, and she wasn’t as quick as she needed to be. A bullet slammed into her thigh and she went crashing into the ice. The thin ice cracked under her and she went through, ice water swallowing her up and dragging her down and away with the current.

 

Mystique couldn’t tell which way was up, couldn't get enough of her bearings to right herself. Something scraped against her back and she couldn’t tell if it was the bottom of the river or the ice above her. Taking a chance, she dug her heels into it and tried to slow herself down. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she tried to find an opening, or at least trying and figure out where the ice was.

 

Something white-ish was above her, and she shoved up with her fists. The jagged underside of the ice sliced into her knuckles, but she persisted, trying to find an opening or thinning of the ice somewhere.

 

As if by divine intervention, one of her hands breached the ice and hit air. Quickly grabbing onto the edge of the ice, not caring when it ripped her palm open, she shoved her other hand up and beat the hole wider, until she could pull her head through.

 

Gasping, Mystique sucked in air and coughed up icy water, all the while pulling herself through the hole and onto the ice. She crawled to the nearest bank, only a few feet high, and scrambled up it. She dragged herself across the frozen ground, unable to think aside from the desire to hide, to get away from the river. The last thought she had before she blacked out was that she needed to get back to her baby.

 

* * *

 

Mystique woke up an indeterminate amount of time later, tucked into a warm but uncomfortable bed. Her first thought, impossibly, was that Azazel had come for her, and they were back at the cottage.

 

That dream was dashed when she opened her eyes. She was in a room, not their cottage, and nothing was familiar. Her body was sore, but it was a dull ache that spoke of having had healed over several days. The sound of people filtered from outside the door, putting Mystique on her guard. Groaning, she pushed herself up, looking around for something to use as a weapon. She noticed that she was dressed in an old nightdress, and quickly tore it from her body.

 

No weapon to be found, Mystique went to the door. If it came down to it, she could fight her way out, though she might be at a disadvantage. Listening closely, she determined that there was no one outside her door. She slowly turned the knob; unlocked. She opened the door and stepped into a hallway. The floor was carpeted and one side led to a staircase, and the other to a window. Not eager to jump out of a window, Mystique headed for the stairs.

 

This didn’t seem like a place Project Wideawake would keep prisoners, but Mystique didn’t drop her guard. Silently, she descended the stairs, keeping an ear out for any movement. She landed at the bottom of the stairs and stilled, trying to pick out anything that might be a threat. There seemed to be a kitchen down the hallway, which probably meant knives of some kind, so she made her way over.

 

Peering around the door, Mystique cursed when she saw a woman puttering over the stove, stirring a pot of something that smelled really good. Mystique tried to think of a way to slip past her when the woman turned around, spotting her in the door. There was a split second where the two women faced each other, both frozen in surprise. The woman opened her mouth to say something and Mystique lunged.

 

The woman yelped as Mystique’s hands gripped the front of her dress, “Where am I?” Mystique growled in German, guessing that she was still in Germany.

 

“M-my home!” the woman said, also in German, “My husband found you by the river and brought you here. You were half dead! We helped you!”

 

Mystique processed this, “Where’s my baby?” she demanded. When the woman only gave her a confused look, she snarled, “My baby! Where is he?” she shouted, shaking the woman.

 

The woman yelped, “There was no baby! We found you alone,” she said.

 

Mystique growled and dropped the woman, stepping towards the door. She had to get back to the river. Her baby had been left out all night, he was probably freezing.

 

“Wait!” the woman called, “If you left a baby out there, it’s probably too late,” she said, “It’s been six days since we found you.”

 

Mystique stopped dead in her tracks, hand on the doorknob. Six days? Even if by some miracle her baby hadn’t frozen to death, he had probably starved, or been carried off by some loathsome animal looking for a quick meal. Her heart thundered in her chest as this realization washed over her.

 

Her baby was gone.

 

He was dead and she couldn’t save him.

 

She had failed.

 

Mystique let out a small noise of despair and collapsed to the floor, clutching her now-flat stomach. Why couldn’t her little bundle have waited a day? Why hadn’t she just climbed the embankment? Why hadn’t she done more? All of these questions swirled in her head as she tried to come to terms with the fact that she had lost everything in the world that she cared about. There was nothing left for her. Project Wideawake had taken everything from her.

 

Mystique clenched her fists, feeling the blood well up under her fingernails. Project Wideawake, whoever they were, had just made the biggest mistake of their life. She’d been stripped, removed of anything that might hold her back from the mission. Now there was _only_ the mission. She was going to make her way through Project Wideawake and tear it apart until there was nothing left, until it’s leader was dead at her feet. For the memory of her baby, she was going to kill the person responsible for destroying her perfect baby’s life before it could even begin.

 

Filled with a new purpose and a burning rage, Mystique pulled herself up and slammed the door open. She had a mission, and nothing was going to stop her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Mystique. Poor Kurt. My poor babies.


	4. Wanderer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally getting into the real fic. I'm actually pretty excited to be working on it. Just so everyone knows, I do have University to attend and do work for, so that'll eat up a chunk of time. So expect to have sporadic or infrequent updates. Sorry guys!

In the wake of the incident with Apocalypse, Erik realized that he had nowhere that he needed to be.

 

There was no place in the world where he could go that he had a purpose. His home was decimated, gutted by the loss of Magda and his precious Nina. He’d abandoned his mission a decade ago, after having to go underground after escaping from the Pentagon. There was nothing for him out in the world, the only thing in his life that had any meaning for him was Charles.

 

So he stayed.

 

It was strange at first, being surrounded by so many students, all of whom knew who he was and what he was capable of. They gave him a wide berth, skittering out of his way when he passed in the halls and avoiding his eyes. They treated Mystique in much the same way, but for her it was more out of respect, whereas they mostly feared him. There were only a few exceptions to this; Charles, of course, as well as Hank and Mystique, which he expected. They had known him for so long that whatever fear they had for him was mired in familiarity. Surprisingly, there was one other who seemed not to fear him, and it was the young speedster, Peter.

 

Perhaps because the boy had broken him out of jail, or because he was somewhat older than the majority of the student body of the school, or maybe even because he simply had no sense of self-preservation and was a cocky little brat, Peter had no compunctions about being around Erik, talking to him familiarly, if awkwardly at times.

 

“Hey man, how’re you?” Peter asked, zipping up beside Erik with a gust of wind while the latter was drinking coffee on the front steps.

 

Erik stifled a cough, having choked a little on his coffee in surprise, “Fine, Peter,” he said, glancing at the boy.

 

He’d gotten taller in the last ten years, slightly broader in the shoulders too. However, he was still lean, having a runner’s body (fittingly enough), muscled but not heavy, built for speed and endurance. His hair was lighter than Erik remembered, and there was something in his dark eyes that seemed familiar somehow.

 

Peter tapped his foot awkwardly, “Cool, cool,” he said, seemingly unable to stay in one pace, “Hey, are you Polish or what?”

 

“Excuse me?” Erik asked.

 

“Polish, are you Polish? ‘Cause you were living in Poland until recently right? But I heard that you were originally from Germany, but I also heard that you came from Poland,” Peter rambled, fidgeting.

 

Erik managed to piece together what he was asking, “I’m German, actually, “ he said, “From Dusseldorf.”

 

“Neat. Hey, ever been to Czechoslovakia?” Peter asked, “I was born there you know, before Mom brought us to the US.”

 

“Yes, I have,” Erik said, sipping his coffee, “I’ve been all over Europe. The world, really.”

 

“Cool, ever been to Japan? I always wanted to go to Japan, it sounds so neat. I wanted to run there one summer but Mom put the kibosh on that after—”

 

“Do you need something?” Erik cut him off. Rude, but he didn’t think he’d get a word in edgewise if he didn’t.

 

Peter stopped, “Uh, no, just wanted to talk is all,” he mumbled, casting his eyes down, “Sorry.”

 

Erik felt a bit like a cad, but he figured it was better to keep his distance from this boy, “Why don’t you go find something else to do?”

 

Peter flinched, “Yeah, sure,” he said, and was gone in an instant.

 

Erik felt his heart clench a little in sympathy, but he really had no time for children right now. Charles was talking about installing him as an instructor at the school (under the radar of course, to avoid any investigations), but the memory of his precious Nina was too fresh, and he needed time.

 

“Take as much time as you need, old friend,” Charles  told him, “This is a safe place for all mutants, no matter their pasts.”

 

Erik closed his eyes and tried to envision himself as a teacher. It just didn’t seem feasible; the last time he’d taught anyone anything, it had been Mystique, and that was a vastly different arrangement. Now Mystique was teaching the next generation of protectors for mutantkind, which gave Erik a sense of pride. Things had fallen apart between them, but she had turned into such a brilliant young woman that he couldn’t find it in himself to regret it.

 

Opening his eyes and swallowing the last of his coffee, Erik turned to go inside, but stopped when he noticed a figure walking up the path. She wasn’t one of the students—he’d memorized them all—but she walked up the path with confidence.

 

“Can I help you?” he called to her once she was in range of hearing.

 

She was young, but not young enough to be part of the usual student age group, around mid-twenties or so (Peter’s age, he thought). She had dark eyes, dark skin, and a riot of red-brown curls that fell down her back. She was quite pretty, Erik noted, with a heart shaped face and a curvy body. She looked a little familiar, but Erik couldn’t place it.

 

“I’m looking for my brother,” she said in a pleasant, clear voice, “Peter Maximoff? You know him?”

 

Erik wanted to laugh, “I do. Is he expecting you?”

 

The girl shook her head, “Not that I know of. I’ve been away for a while.”

 

Erik watched her suspiciously. Apparently, she shared her brother’s confidence, and stared him right back in the eyes. He stepped to the door and opened it, “We’ll have to check in with the Professor first. We can’t have you wandering around without confirming your identity.”

 

“Fair enough,” the girl said, trotting up the steps, “I’m Wanda, by the way, Wanda Maximoff.”

 

“Erik Lehnsherr,” he replied with a dip of his head. He led the girl—Wanda—inside. As she passed him, she gave him an odd, knowing smile. Erik raised an eyebrow at her, but said nothing and followed her inside.

 

* * *

 

“You wanted to see me, Professor?” Hank asked as he stepped into Charles’s new office (slightly under-furnished while they were still reconstructing).

 

Charles was pouring over some documents on his desk, looking a little frazzled, “Yes, come in Hank,” he said. He piled a few more folders on top of an already precariously leaning pile and folded his hands in front of his face, elbows on his desk, looking for all the world a man with a million things to do at once, “I wanted to talk to you about the assessments of of the X-Men.”

 

Hank let out a sigh of relief, happy that it was only this and there wasn’t another disaster, “Alright. Well, Jean, Scott, and Peter are all in perfect health—”

 

“In particular, I’d like to talk about Kurt,” Charles interrupted.

 

Hank rethought his initial relief. Kurt Wagner, or Nightcrawler, as he had decided to use as his callsign, was a touchy subject that they (‘they’ being himself, Charles, Erik, and Raven) had all managed to avoid talking about so far. It wasn’t that the boy was unpleasant (quite the opposite really) or any more unusual than some of the other students in how he had come to the school, but there was the elephant in the room that the boy himself was unaware of.

 

Kurt was obviously Raven’s son.

 

It hadn’t taken long for Hank to piece it together; with the way Kurt looked (blue skin, yellow eyes, and a long spaded tail) and his powers (teleportation with an accompanying sulfuric cloud), it was obvious that Kurt was Raven’s child with Azazel. He didn’t know the whole story about that, and Raven was tight lipped about the whole thing, so it was unlikely that they would know any time soon. Charles was chomping at the bit to know, to ask her, but he held himself back for fear of scaring Raven off again. Hank on the other hand, wasn’t sure he wanted to know how it had happened, not with the way he and Raven still danced around each other.

 

Hank cleared his throat, “Well, he’s underweight, for starters. He and Ororo both show signs of prolonged malnourishment, to which I’ve prescribed a strict diet for the both of them. Other than that, Kurt’s quite physically fit, though he’s had quite a few injuries over the years, mostly in the knees, ankles, and wrists, which would hold up what he told us about being an acrobat is true.” Hank took of his glasses and cleaned them off on his shirt to stall for a second, “He needs some dental work done, as his wisdom teeth are erupting and will need to be removed, but other than that, he’s healthy.”

 

“Good, good,” Charles said, marking something down in his calendar, “What about his education?”

 

Hank sighed, “Well, I read his assessments, and he’s had a terrible education, speaking modestly. He’s intelligent, that much we can infer, but he’s received only the basic instruction in most subjects. He has basic math skills, his grammar and writing skills are rather rudimentary, and his knowledge of history and literature is sporadic at best. I don't think he has any knowledge of the sciences at all. However, he speaks three languages fluently and another five on a basic level. He’s memorized the Bible in German, English, and Latin, and knows some passages from the Koran and the Tanakh, as well as some Buddhist philosophy. He’s also quite disciplined in acrobatics and a number of dances ranging from ballet to swing. All to say Professor, he’s all over the place when it comes to his education.”

 

Charles sighed, “That’s quite the range,” he said, sitting back in his chair, “What do you propose we do about it?”

 

Hank thought for a moment, “Well, putting him in regular classes might help a little, but not on a scale that would work long term. He’s more likely to just get confused and do poorly on homework and exams. If you wanted my opinion, I’d suggest a tutor to catch him up to the rest of his age group.”

 

Charles smiled, Yes, I think that would be best,” he said, then frowned, “There is, however, the unfortunate snag of who would tutor him.”

 

Hank didn’t like where this was going. Charles was annoyingly good at getting people to what he wanted by merit of their own choice, “I’d have thought you’d be eager to do it, Professor,” he said carefully.

 

“I am, or I would be, but the fact of the matter is that I have no time,” Charles said, “With the rebuilding and this whole fiasco with the CIA and the media freaking out about mutant threats, I don’t have the time I would need to make it worthwhile for Kurt.”

 

“Have Raven do it, or Erik, he’s got plenty of time,” Hank said, feeling his frustration welling up.

 

“Hank,” Charles scolded, “Don’t be cruel. Erik is still in mourning and Raven . . . she’s already teaching him with the other X-Men, I don't think it would mesh well.” Charles looked at him with a slight note of pleading, “Hank, I’d like you to be Kurt’s tutor.”

 

Hank held back a groan, “I can’t,” he said, “I’m too busy.”

 

“We’re all very busy, but you’re ever so slightly less so, with no classes to teach,” Charles said pointedly, “You usually avoid administrative affairs like a plague, and only teach when we need a substitute. Please Hank, I need you to do it.”

 

Hank sighed, knowing that Charles had a point, but the fact remained that he didn’t want to interact with Kurt if he could help it. It was no fault of Kurt’s, but Hank couldn’t help but look at him and see how Raven had chosen a different path from his and resent him a little. The weird  _ thing _ he had with Raven still had them dancing around each other, and he didn't want to drag an innocent kid into it.

 

“There’s no one else?” Hank tried.

 

“There’s no one else I trust,” Charles said.

 

Hank groaned, “Fine, alright,” he said, “I’ll do it.”

 

Charles smiled, “Excellent. I want updates on his progress as you go along. I can spare a few moment to draw up a lesson plan for you if you like.”

 

“No, I’ll do it,” Hank said, a little amused by Charles’s keen interest. The boy was the closest thing to a nephew he had.

 

“Thank you Hank. He’s a very intelligent boy, I’m sure he’ll be caught up in no time,” Charles said. At that moment, a knock came at the door, “Who’s there?” Charles called.

 

Erik opened the door, a strange girl next to him, “There’s someone here to see the Maximoff boy. She says she’s his sister.”

 

* * *

 

When Wanda had gotten word of what had happened in Cairo, she had finally decided to come home. There was the other reason, but learning about her brother’s and Erik’s involvement had clinched it.

 

She’d dropped by the house first, but it was clear that Peter wasn’t there, she moved on. Their mother had done her best—something Wanda appreciated more as an adult than she had as a teenager—but she didn’t think she was ready to talk to her face to face just yet. She’d done a little digging and found out that he had taken up at Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, a school for mutants who needed to learn to control their powers (which would have been  _ great _ for her if it had been operational  _ eleven years ago _ , not that she was bitter or anything). So, hopping on a bus, Wanda had made her way to upstate New York, to Westchester.

 

It was a really nice neighborhood, nothing like Wanda had ever lived in. The school itself was a mansion at the end of a long road, with no other properties for miles. The main building was new-looking, but old fashioned in construction.

 

She nearly turned around when she saw that Erik Lehnsherr was casually drinking coffee on the front steps. Figuring that she’d come too far not to just give up because her estranged father who didn’t know that she was his daughter was in the way, she powered through and he led her to Professor Xavier’s office.

 

Wanda had heard a lot about Professor Xavier over the last few years or so, and all the steps he’d made in mutant civil rights. She’s even read a few of his papers—the ones she had been able to get a hand on while in Europe anyway. She was actually pretty exciting to meet him. She was a little surprised that he was bald (it must be a new thing, because it was in none of the photos that came along with his published works).

 

“Hi, I’m Wanda Maximoff,” she introduced herself, walking into the office passed Erik, trying not to stare at the giant furry blue guy, “I’m here to see my brother.”

 

“Oh, Peter never mentioned a sister,” Xavier said, looking at her curiously.

 

Wanda shrugged, “I left home eleven years ago, he was pretty mad about it,” she said, “Don’t worry though, we’ve reconciled since then.”

 

“Glad to hear it,” Xavier said with a smile, “Would you mind consenting to a quick telepathic check? It seems a little paranoid, but with everything that’s happened, we’re a little paranoid. You can refuse if you like, but in that case you’ll have to stay here until we find Peter.”

 

“No, it’s fine. Go ahead,” Wanda said, “I understand.”

 

“Thank you,” Xavier said, wheeling himself out from behind his desk and crossing to her, “I promise I won’t go snooping around, I just need to make sure you are who you say you are.”

 

As he turned the corner around his desk, Xavier had the misfortune to knock a forgotten coffee cup off of a stack of files. Everyone in the room jumped as it shattered against the hardwood floor.

 

“Oh damn it,” Xavier cursed, “Hold on a moment while I clean this up.”

 

“No, I can get it,” Wanda said, feeling a little mischievous. Extending her powers through her hand, she took hold of the glass and brought the shards back together. They floated up and pieced back together, not even the smallest sliver being left behind. Red light swirled around her fingertips and the mug as it reformed and alighted on her outstretched palm, whole again.

 

“Extraordinary,” Xavier praised, eyes alight.

 

“Telekinesis?” the giant blue guy asked, picking up the mug and inspecting it.

 

“Um, I don’t think so?” Wanda answered, not sure how to describe her powers.

 

“No, that wouldn’t quiet cover it,” Xavier said, still looking up at her in fascination, “With telekinesis, you’d be able to bring the pieces back together, but you wouldn't be able to ‘unbreak’ the mug. This goes much deeper.”

 

Wanda smiled, “I’d love to talk to you about it sometime,” she said, noticing his delight, “But right now I’d like to find my brother.”

 

“Of course, of course,” Xavier said, tempering his curiosity, “You might feel what I call a mental ‘tickle’, but it shouldn’t hurt a bit.”

 

Wanda nodded and waited patiently. There was an odd sensation emanating from her brain, but it was over in a moment, “So? Am I who I say I am?”

 

Xavier smiled at her, “You are indeed who you say you are. Would you like me to call Peter for you?” He lifted two fingers towards his temple.

 

“No, that’s okay, I can go looking,” Wanda said, “Besides, we’re twins. We can always find each other.”

 

“Alright. Please stay in the common areas while you wander around,” Xavier said, “And I’d very much like to speak to you later. Your powers are fascinating.”

 

Wanda laughed, “Thank you. I’ll come by later,” she said, then left the office.

 

The inside of the house was just as nice as the outside, she thought to herself as she walked down the hallways. There were a few kids around, but it seemed like the school was mostly empty—it was mid July, so Wanda wasn’t that surprised. Most of the kids had probably gone home. There were a few around, but it was probable that many of them didn’t have ‘homes’ to go to, or ones that wanted them anyway.

 

Wanda decided to just wander around for a bit. Eventually she would run into her brother, like she always seemed to. While they couldn’t feel each other’s pain or read each other’s thoughts, they did seem to have an uncanny ability to find where the other was without really needing to look that hard.

 

After about ten minutes, she finally spotted Peter, just like she knew she would. He was lounging around on the grass, near a group of kids who all looked to be a few years younger than him (one of them was blue with a tail, which, okay). Wanda grinned and began walking over the grass.

 

“Hey loser!” she called, “What’s a dropout like you doing in a place like this?”

 

Peter jerked up the second he heard her voice. Immediately spotting her coming towards them, his face lit up like Christmas and the next instant, he was hugging her tightly, lifting her up and swinging her around.

 

“Wanda! Sis!” he cried with joy, “When did you get here?”

 

“Like a half an hour ago,” Wanda laughed, hugging him back just as tight, “I decided it was time to come home.”

 

Peter beamed, “I didn’t even know you were back in the country. What happened to Europe?”

 

“Well I assume it’s still where I left it, but I only got back to the US a few days ago.”

 

Peter laughed, then got a little quiet, “Did you stop by the house?” he asked.

 

Wanda’s mood fell a little, “Yeah,” she said, “Didn’t talk to Mom though.”

 

Peter nodded, clearly not happy about it, but he knew better than to push, “Ellie’s with her dad now, most of the time,” he told her.

 

Wanda took a deep breath, “Good. That’ll be good for her,” she said.

 

Disliking the sour air around them, Peter quickly changed the subject, “Hey, come meet my team!” he exclaimed, grabbing her hand and tugging toward the group of kids.

 

They were all watching them curiously, but as they walked towards them, they tried to make it less obvious. They only looked back up when Peter led her right into their midst.

 

“Guys, this is my twin sister, Wanda,” he said proudly.

 

Wanda waved, “Hey.”

 

A tiny Asian girl with pigtails lept up and bounded over to her, hand out to shake, “Hi! I’m Jubilee,” she said, as bubbly as her looks would suggest. She turned to make introductions, pointing each person out, “The redhead is Jean, and the guy in the shades is Scott. The gorgeous African girl with white hair is Ororo, and the blueberry trying to hide behind her is Kurt.”

 

Wanda chuckled as they all waved at her, “Nice to meet you all,” she said, “I’d love to sit and talk, but I was hoping to steal my brother away for a while.”

 

“By all means, take him,” Ororo said, soliciting a laugh out of the others. Peter clutched his chest like he was wounded.

 

“I like you,” Wanda said, grinning at the dark skinned girl. Ororo smirked and raised an elegant white brow at her.

 

“Y’all’r rude,” Peter protested, “I’m taking you away before you can all gang up on me.” He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her away, back towards the house, “See you guys later!” he called over his shoulder.

 

“They’re a bit young for you to be hanging out with, aren’t they?” Wanda asked as the teenagers all called their goodbyes at their retreating backs.

 

Peter shrugged, “Yeah a bit I guess, but we’re a team, so forming bonds it good.”

 

“Team?” Wanda inquired, not sure what that meant.

 

Peter waved her off, “I’ll explain later,” he promised, “So what made you come home?”

 

Wanda went quiet for a moment, “Let’s go somewhere quiet,” she said.

 

Peter nodded and reached up to put his hand on her head. Wanda let herself go loose as he zipped them through the house. Most people tensed up when Peter ran with them, but it was actually better to go loose. When they slowed a fraction of a second later, they were in a room of some kind, probably Peter’s.

 

Wanda sat down on the bed and Peter flopped down next to her. She didn't say anything right away, only rested her head on her twin’s shoulder. Peter didn’t push her; this was the one area where he could be patient.

 

“I heard about Cairo,” she said eventually.

 

Peter sighed, “Yeah, it was pretty nasty. I broke my leg,” he said, “How did you know I was there?”

 

“Had a feeling,” Wanda said with a shrug.

 

Peter hummed, leaving it at that. He could trust Wanda’s instincts on this at least, “So that’s why you decided to come home?”

 

Wanda nodded, “That’s not the whole reason, but it’s part of it,” she said, “After the whole thing, people got even more skittish around mutants than usual. I started getting nervous and figured that home was the place to be.”

 

“Reasonable,” Peter said, resting his head on top of hers, “Is that everything?”

 

Wanda bit her lip, “No,” she said, “But don’t ask me about it yet please. I need . . . I need to think about some stuff first.”

 

“Okay,” Peter said, accepting, even though she knew that he didn’t like it.

 

Silence floated over them like a light sheet. Wanda almost felt like taking a nap, “I met Erik,” she said softly.

 

“Yeah? What’s your first impression?” Peter asked.

 

Wanda thought for a second, “He’s intense. He has an air of loneliness and despair around him.”

 

Peter hummed, “Yeah well, he just lost his family,” he said, “Well, the family he knew anyway.”

 

Wanda closed her eyes, “Yeah, that would do it,” she said, “And we know that it’s him?”

 

“Mom certainly thought so, but I checked,” Peter said, “It’s him.”

 

Wanda sighed, “I trust you,” she said, “He doesn’t know?”

 

“Not yet,” Peter assured her, “I’m working on it.”

 

Wanda grinned and pinched him in the ribs, “Working up the balls?”

 

Peter tutted at her, “No respect for your elder brother.”

 

“You’re twelve minutes older, it doesn’t count.” Wanda rolled her eyes.

 

Peter laughed, “You only say that because you’re the younger one,” he said.

 

Wanda laughed, then yawned, “I’m tired. I’m going to steal your bed,” she said, sliding off his shoulder and curling up on his bed.

 

In a minute, she was comfortably tucked, “Yeah sure. Want me to flick the light?”

 

“Yeah, please.” Wanda yawned again. After all her travelling, her exhaustion was finally catching up to her, “Wake me up for food.”

 

Peter chuckled, “Of course,” he said, “Night Wanda.”

 

“Night Pietro,” Wanda said, closing her eyes just as the lights went out and her brother left the room in a gust of air. Within a few minutes, she was asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's the first chapter. The chapters will be much shorter than the prologues.


	5. Siblings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I managed to get this out faster than I thought I would. I'll try to let you guys know when things will slow down due to school.

To say that Charles was stressed was putting it mildly. After all that had happened, he’d really had no time to rest and decompress. The school needed to be rebuilt from the foundations up, tensions had to be soothed across several nations, the children the remained at the school for the summer (and there were many) had to be taken care of, and friends needed to be mourned.

 

Just the thought of Alex made Charles grit his teeth in pain. To lose such an old and dear friend on top of everything else that had happened was almost too much to bear. But Charles lot was to bear it, and he did it well. He certainly didn’t want to step on Scott’s toes when it came to grieving for Alex Summers.

 

The silver lining of course was having Raven back with him at the house. She was distant with him, guarded, but after twenty years estranged, he was expecting that. They would need time to rebuild their relationship, and it was unlikely they would ever go back to what they were.

 

The wild card was Kurt Wagner. Charles wasn’t exactly sure how to react to the boy. He wanted to get to know him, get close to him, as he was quite obviously Raven’s child. However, Kurt didn’t have even the slightest inclination of the truth, and Raven barely looked at the boy aside from training. He wanted to ask, he wanted to know what had happened to the woman he had once called  _ sister _ to be separated from her own child like this, but he refrained. Raven barely spoke to him of she could help it, and he didn’t want to push her further away.

 

So he kept his distance from Kurt for now. In the future he hoped to be able to get to know him better, but it would have to wait. As would, it seemed, his relationship with Moira.

 

With everything that was going on, he and Moira only seemed to ever be able to talk on the phone for five minute intervals every once in a blue moon. They were always making plans, but there always seemed to be something popping up at the last minute that required their undivided attention. Charles was disappointed, but not as much as he thought he’d be.

 

Charles sighed and put down the last of his paperwork (there would be more tomorrow, there always was). It was getting close to dinner, but there was enough time for him to head to the library and have a little quiet time.

 

The library was mostly devoid of books for the moment, but there were a few that Charles had managed to get, and a few donated to the school. They were mostly still in boxes, but Charles was sure he’d be able to fish something out.

 

When he got to the library, he was a little started to see Erik shelving the books from one of the many boxes scattered about, “Oh, hello Erik. I didn’t know you were in here.”

 

Erik looked up from his task, “I figured I’d do something useful,” he said.

 

Charles was on his toes around Erik (figuratively speaking). The other man had just experienced the worst loss of his life, and even Charles, who knew him best in this world, couldn’t comfort him in any meaningful way.

 

“Thank you,” Charles said, “You didn’t have to.”

 

“I wanted to do  _ something _ ,” Erik said, perhaps more forcefully than he’d meant to. He put the book down on the shelf, “Sorry, that was . . .”

 

“It’s alright,” Charles said. He noticed the chess board (one of the first acquisitions for the library), “How about a game? We could both use the break.”

 

Erik glanced over, “Sounds nice,” he said. He dusted off his hands and crossed to the little table, “White or black?”

 

“You know I always take white,” Charles said, wheeling himself across from Erik.

 

Erik chuckled, “Of course,” he said. He didn’t comment on the fact that the chess set was made of different coloured metal.

 

They sat in silence for a while, just playing back and forth. Erik had aged, Charles noticed, which wasn’t exactly surprising, seeing as it had been ten years since they’d last met. He’d aged well though, with only a slight crinkling at the corner of his eyes and a smattering of grey at his temples. Charles was tempted to run his hand over his now-bald head, wondering if he could still be considered to have aged well.

 

“It suits you,” Erik said out of the blue, “The bald head. It’s suits you.”

 

“I’m not sure if I should feel complimented or insulted,” Charles said.

 

Erik laughed a little, “I meant it as a compliment,” he assured.

 

“Well then, I’ll take it as such. Thank you,” Charles said with a small laugh.

 

They lapsed into silence again, but Charles could still feel the roiling chaos of Erik’s mind. He wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what he could possibly say to make anything better.

 

“Are you alright?” Erik asked, “It’s your turn.”

 

Charles blinked looking down at the board, “Oh, sorry,” he said, making his move (a really stupid one that made Erik’s eyebrows travel up towards his hairline), “Lost in thought I guess.”

 

Erik hummed, “How’s your head?” he asked.

 

Charles’s hand reached up to touch his bare scalp, “What about my head?”

 

“No, not that,” Erik said, sounding apologetic even as he chuckled, “I meant your telepathy. You were a little over sensitive after the whole mess in Cairo. Are you still—?”

 

“Oh no, not at all,” Charles said, putting his hand down, “Well, a little, but I can handle it.”

 

“Anything I can do to help?” Erik asked.

 

“No, I’ll be alright, I just need time,” Charles asked, “Are you alright?”

 

Erik went quiet, and Charles decided to backtrack a little, “Did you have any other seizures? After that first one?”

 

After they had all calmed down in Cairo, Erik had had a seizure. Hank had concluded that it probably had something to do with being connected to so much metal throughout so much of the earth. The mental ‘snap’ back into himself had caused a seizure, though Erik seemed fine afterwards.

 

“No, that was the only one,” Erik said, “I felt a little light headed for a while, but it’s gone now.”

 

“If you need to take a break from helping with the rebuilding, we’d all understand,” Charles said, “You need to take care of yourself.”

 

“I’m alright. Most of the metal work is finished anyway,” Erik said, “It’s just smaller things here and there.”

 

“Of course,” Charles hummed, putting Erik in check, “Check.”

 

Erik grumbled and made his move, but he could see that the game was over, “It’s been so long since I played.”

 

“Really? Your wife never played?” Charles asked a split second before cursing himself for being an insensitive arse.

 

Erik paused, “No,” he said softly, “Magda never had the patience for it. I was teaching Nina though. She was getting pretty good at it.”

 

Charles relaxed a little, but kept himself guarded, “I’m sure she would have been an amazing player,” he said.

 

Erik nodded, “She would have been,” he said. They sat for a long time, the silence between them neither oppressive nor comforting. Charles wheeled himself around the table and took Erik’s hand, squeezing it with his own.

 

“I’m truly sorry, my friend,” he said softly, hoping he wasn’t overstepping his bounds.

 

Erik stared into his eyes, grey-green into bright blue, “Thank you,” he said.

 

Charles smiled, “Stay here however long you need to. No one blames you for your grief.”

 

Erik’s jaw clenched, and Charles knew what he was thinking; that he’d been responsible for the death of his wife and daughter because he was Magneto. His past had caught up to him and it had gotten his family killed for the second time.

 

“It was absolutely  _ not _ your fault Erik,” Charles insisted, “Their deaths . . . you couldn’t have known what would happen.”

 

Erik took a deep breath, “I should never have married her. I never should have gotten involved.”

 

“Now that’s the opposite of what I believe,” Charles said, “Everyone deserves happiness, even you,” he said.

 

Erik looked like he wanted to say something, but he only broke down, tears falling down his cheeks. He collapsed forward, hunching in on himself. Charles, thinking quickly, pulled Erik onto him, so his face was buried in Charles’s shoulder. He rubbed Erik’s back and tried to soothe him as he sobbed.

 

Erik composed himself fairly quickly, evening out his breathing and pulled back, “I’m sorry,” he said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

 

“It’s alright,” Charles said, “What are friends for?”

 

Erik chuckled a little. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was still wet, but Charles was hopeful that he could help his friend through his grief.

 

There was an electronic ping, signaling that the PA system was active, “Dinner will be served in fifteen minutes,” came Pamela’s voice (she was an amazing secretary and Charles was very lucky to have found her).

 

“I suppose we should go wash up,” Charles said, “Will you be joining the rest of the faculty for dinner?”

 

Erik shook his head, “They’re all still uncomfortable around me,” he said, “I’ll take my meal somewhere private.”

 

Charles could have read Erik’s need not to be alone right now without the barest hint of his telepathy, “Why don’t I join you?” Charles offered. He usually had his meals in his office when he was as busy as he was right now, but he could spare a little more time. His work would be there when he got back.

 

Erik smiled, “Thank you, old friend.”

 

Charles smiled back, “Of course.”

 

* * *

 

Peter, as promised, came to get Wanda when it was time for dinner. She felt like she could sleep for another ten hours, but she probably needed to eat some real food and managed to drag herself downstairs to the dining hall.

 

Wanda let herself be tugged over to a certain corner of the room, where she saw the same group of teens, “So what’s this about a team?” she asked.

 

“It’s easier to explain with all of us,” Peter said. They sat down at the table and made their introductions again.

 

“So where have you been?” Scott asked, propping his elbows up on the table and resting his chin on his intertwined fingers, “Peter’s never mentioned you.”

 

“Europe,” Wanda said, “My powers were a little less stable than Peter’s, so I ran away from home to try and figure them out.”

 

“You didn’t come to this place?” Ororo asked.

 

“The school wasn’t active eleven years ago,” Jean said, “It only started functioning as a school again about nine or eight years ago, after Mystique saved the president.”

 

“Yeah, so I decided backpacking over Europe was my best bet,” Wanda said, “This is the first time I’ve been home in a decade.”

 

“Were you ever in Germany?” Kurt asked shyly. Wanda kind of wanted to pinch his cheeks.

 

“Yeah, a few times,” she said, “What area are you from?”

 

“I travelled all over with the circus,” Kurt said, sounding excited that someone was asking about it, “But in the off season we would stay in a little town called Winzeldorff.”

 

“Sounds nice. Is that in the north or the south?” Wanda asked.

 

Kurt shrugged, “It was in the Alps. It’s a very little place.”

 

“How do you not know what area you’re from?” Scott asked Kurt. Wanda was getting the sense that Scott was a bit of an ass, if an unintentional one.

 

Kurt shrank a little, “No one ever said, so I never asked. It didn't seem important.”

 

At Kurt’s slight withering, the females of the group immediately turned on Scott, who backed off right away. Ororo glared so fiercely that Wanda almost expected Scott’s head to explode. Kurt, it seemed, was well loved and well protected. Wanda chuckled a little at their behaviour.

 

“It’s cool,” she said, “Half the time I had no idea what country I was in, so you’ve got a one up on me there.”

 

“Really?” Jubilee asked, “You travelled that much?”

 

“I travelled with a group of Roma,” Wanda explained.

 

“We’re Roma on our mother’s side,” Peter explained, “We were actually born in Czechoslovakia. We only came to the States when we were a year old I think.”

 

“What is Roma?” Ororo asked.

 

“Oh I know this!” Kurt said cheerfully, tail flicking about, “It’s an ethnic group of nomadic people in Europe. Some travelled with the circus I was in, and my Pflegemutter was Roma. I think in English you call them Gypsies?”

 

“Oh, Gypsies,” Scott said in understanding, “Why didn't you just say that?”

 

Wanda tried not to grit her teeth. Peter beat her to the punch, “Because that’s a slur, jackass,” he said.

 

Scott looked a little taken aback, “Well, I didn’t know,” he defended.

 

“Scott, just be quiet,” Jean said, “You’re only going to make it worse.”

 

The teenaged boy looked like he was about to protest more, but a sharp look from Jean made him snap his mouth shut, “Sorry,” he mumbled in Wanda and Peter’s direction.

 

“It’s okay,” Wanda said, “You didn’t know, but now you do.”

 

Mollified, Scott looked a little less ashamed of himself. Wanda resisted the urge to roll her eyes. This one was going to be trouble.

 

“Yeah, so I travelled around with a group of Roma for a long time, but after what happened in Cairo, I decided it was time to come home,” Wanda said. At the mention of Cairo, the whole table went a quiet, “What’d I say?” she asked.

 

Jean took a deep breath and proceeded to explain the extent of their involvement in Cairo, occasionally interjected by Scott. She finished by explaining that she, Ororo, Kurt, Scott, and Peter had all formed into a strike team called X-Men to combat mutant threats and threats to mutants, under the tutelage of Mystique herself.

 

“Damn,” Wanda said, a little stunned. She turned to Jubilee, “You aren’t an X-Man?”

 

Jubilee sighed, “Too young,” she said, “Age limit of sixteen. I’m fifteen until May.”

 

Wanda hummed, “So if I wanted to be an X-Man—?”

 

“You’d have to talk to the Professor,” Jean said, “Professor Xavier?”

 

“Yeah, I know who the Professor is. Met him when I came in,” Wanda said, thinking back to the unassuming bald man in the wheelchair. It was a little hard to believe that he was the most powerful telepath on the planet.

 

“You’d probably have to go through a lot of tests,” Scott said, “The only reason we’re the core group is because we were all in Cairo.”

 

“I was not a student until I became an X-Man, but I showed I was capable in Cairo,” Ororo said, holding her head high, almost a challenge—Wanda remembered that she had been on the opposite side of the fight in Cairo before having a change of heart.

 

Wanda hummed, “Well, the Professor wanted to talk to me later anyway, I might bring it up.”

 

“He wanted to talk to you? What about?” Jean asked.

 

“My powers I think. I repaired a cup he broke and he was really curious how it worked,” Wanda explained.

 

“So your power is to fix broken things?” Kurt asked.

 

Wanda shrugged, “Kinda. I can do a lot of things. It’s hard to explain.” Feeling the questions coming, she quickly sidetracked, “What about you guys? What are your powers?”

 

That got them excited, “I can teleport!” Kurt said, “And I’m also very flexible. And I look like this, but it’s not really a power,” he explained, petering out a little at the end, causing the others to laugh.

 

“I make fireworks, basically,” Jubilee said, “It’s not really fireworks, more like a lot of sparks with different colours, but it sure looks like fireworks. I can also blow stuff up a little.”

 

“I’m a telepath and a telekinetic,” Jean explained, “I’m not as good as the Professor, but I’m pretty good with my telekinesis.”

 

“I have optic blasts,” Scott said. He didn't offer any further explanation. Guess that explained the sunglasses.

 

“I can control the weather,” Ororo said, grinning, “Everything from wind to rain to snow. I can even make it sunny if I want.”

 

Wanda smiled, “Sounds really cool,” she said, glad to have distracted them.

 

The conversation meandered about from topic to topic. Wanda found herself liking these kids more and more; it made her hopeful for the future. Surely a group like this, in a safe haven for their kind like this, wouldn't reject her outright? She’d been ensconced in one group for so long that she’d forgotten than other groups could have different approaches to those funny aspects of life.

 

They finished their meals and the others began tidying their plates, stacking them up. Wanda followed suit and saw why when a lady trundled passed with a cart and all the students put their dishes into it, politely thanking the lady as she went by. Charles Xavier, having grown up in an elitist society, was a stickler for appreciating the efforts of those who cooked and cleaned and did all those jobs that people forgot existed. Wanda found herself liking this place more and more.

 

The little group of X-Men wandered back outside, into the dying light of the evening. It was seven o'clock, but still the height of summer, so the sun wouldn't set for a while yet. Wanda followed along, content to just watch them all bounce around with the energy of teenagers.

 

“Makes you feel a little old, doesn't it?” she said to Peter, who walked with her. He usually ran ahead and cavorted with the others, but now he wanted to be with his sister.

 

“Sometimes, if I think about it too long,” Peter said, “But really, I’ve been doing the same thing since I was sixteen. Living in the basement and getting into trouble.” Peter paused for a moment, looking a little sad, “It only feels like I’m starting to live my life  _ now _ .”

 

Wanda smiled, “I’m glad,” she said, “That you finally grew up,” she teased, elbowing him in the side.

 

Peter huffed good-naturedly, “Yeah well, had to happen sometime, right?”

 

Wanda laughed and watched as Kurt did some impressive flips and cartwheels down the path. Jubilee tried to mimick him, but only managed a single cartwheel before falling over onto the gravel. Peter zipped ahead and picked her up, brotherly instincts as lively as ever as he brushed her off. Proclaiming that she wasn't hurt, Jubilee trotted off ahead, reminding Wanda of a cat that tried to play off that it had just flopped on a jump.

 

If there was a place to settle, this would be it, Wanda decided.

 

* * *

 

It was night before Wanda mustered up the courage to tell Peter. They had spent most of the evening talking with the X-Men and touring the school and the grounds. She’d briefly spoken to Xavier again, informing him that she would be fine staying in her brother’s room and promising to talk to him about her powers tomorrow. The curfew for the older children over the age of 14 was 9pm, with all the younger kids off to bed at 8, so they said goodnight to to others around then. Peter, at age 26, was much too old (and too stubborn) to be dictated by a curfew, so they’d stayed up late watching TV and getting to know a few teachers who were still up.

 

By the time 11 rolled around, most of the house was asleep, and Peter took Wanda back to his room (now with an extra cot) to get ready for bed.

 

“You ever gonna stop being all mysterious?” Peter asked as they changed, backs turned to each other.

 

“In a minute,” Wanda said, slipping on her night shirt and then unclipping her bra. She wiggled it out from under her shirt and tossed it on top of her suitcase.

 

Peter kept up a facade of patience until they were both dressed in their pyjamas. He raised a white eyebrow at her expectantly. Wanda fidgeted and went to her suitcase, pulling out her hairbrush. It was gone in an instant and Peter was sitting on the bed, holding it in one hand, waiting for her.

 

Wanda sat down on the bed in front of him, her back facing him. Immediately, he began to brush her hair, taking his time as he only ever did for her.

 

“C’mon sis, you’re not still cheesed at me for how I was when you left?” he said, carefully untangling a knot without yanking on her head.

 

“No,” she said, “That’s long behind us.”

 

Silenced pervaded once more. Wanda could feel Peter getting more and more impatient with her as she procrastinated, trying to find the words.

 

“Pietro,” she said softly, using his ‘real’ name so he knew it was serious, “I’m pregnant.”

 

The hairbrush stopped halfway through her hair, “Shit really?” Peter asked, “Are you sure?”

 

“Yeah, pretty sure. Haven't been to a doctor yet, but I took like, thirty pregnancy tests,” Wanda said, “All positive.”

 

“Shit,” Peter said again, starting up his brushing again, “That’s why you came back?”

 

Wanda nodded, “I wanted to be home to make my decision.”

 

“And?” Peter finished brushing and started weaving her hair into a loose braid, “What did you decide?”

 

Wanda bit her lip and took a deep breath, “I’m keeping it,” she said, “I mean, I already knew I was gonna keep it, but I wanted to be  _ home _ , you know?”

 

“Yeah,” Peter said, “Does Mom know?”

 

“Fuck no,” Wanda said, collapsing back into peter’s chest, “Can you imagine what she’d say to me?”

 

Peter wrapped his arms around her and sighed, “Yeah, that’s not a pretty mental picture,” he said, “What about the father?”

 

Wanda looked up at him, seeing mostly chin from the angle she was at, “What  _ about _ the father?”

 

Peter huffed, “After everything with Mom and Dad, you’re really gonna be like that?”

 

Wanda pinched his thigh, “After everything with Mom and all her boyfriends, you really think I’m gonna  _ care _ ?”

 

With a sigh, Peter relented, “Touché,” he said.

 

“Besides—” Wanda defended, probably a little petulantly, “I’m  _ not _ Mom. I can do this just fine without the father.” She smiled up at Peter, “Plus, I've got an awesome twin who’s gonna be the  _ best _ uncle ever.”

 

“Damn fucking right.” Peter grinned down at her, “What was he like though? The father?”

 

Wanda shrugged, “Black hair, handsome I guess,” she paused, “I think.”

 

“You  _ think _ ?” Peter asked, “You don't know?”

 

Wanda waved her hand dismissively, “There are like, three guys who it could be, all of them definitely  _ not _ father material.”

 

“Oh my God, you little whore,” Peter laughed, “I can believe my sister is a pregnant runaway.”

 

“Fuck you, you’re a dropout who hangs out with teenagers,” Wanda huffed back, also laughing.

 

The siblings collapsed into giggles, curling up on the bed together. Peter wrapped her up in a tight embrace, “I’m glad you’re home,” he said.

 

Wanda hugged her brother back just as tight, “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't usually like using the same character twice in a chapter (I like to break my stories up into perspectives), but the stuff I had planned for Mystique didn't fit with the rest of the chapter, so I bumped up Wanda's 'big reveal' and you'll get Mystique next chapter.


	6. Blau

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter! I'm pretty pleased with myself for getting these out so quickly.

Mystique hated herself.

 

She’d gotten used to a certain amount of self-loathing over the years, seeing her face used as the face of The Movement which never seemed to move in any direction. This hatred, however, ran deeper than that. Deeper even than the hate she felt when she knew she hadn't done enough and someone got killed because she wasn't fast or strong or smart enough. This went further than that, this was soul deep and completely unfixable.

 

Mystique hated herself because her perfect, precious baby was  _ alive _ .

 

Finding him had been somewhat of an accident; she’d been travelling through Germany when a poster caught her eye. The poster was outdated by w few weeks, advertising a small travelling circus that had long since moved on. It wouldn't have caught Mystique’s eye at all if not for the act it had advertised. An acrobatics act, it read in the fine print. In large, stylized writing, the title of the act was The Incredible Nightcrawler. Even that wouldn’t have been enough to turn Mystique’s head—aside from noting how garish the font was. What truly caught her eye was the picture, a painted graphic of a blue demon creature, three fingers on each hand, a long spaded tail curling around its body, bright yellow eyes, and exaggerated fangs protruding from a twisted snarl.

 

Even after so long, nearly sixteen years, a mother didn't forget the sight of her child.

 

Mystique had followed after the circus for months, trying to catch them and just missing them. She finally caught up to them when they were delayed by a broken down truck. In disguise, she’d asked after Nightcrawler, the acrobat demon, passing herself off as a fan of the show. When it became clear that he was no longer in the circus, she stuck around, trying to find out what had happened to him, where her baby had gone. Eventually, she had discovered that Nightcrawler had been boxed up a sold to some mutant traffickers for a high price (mutants with physical mutations always fetched a higher price, exoticised and fetishized to the point of being props or decoration).

 

Furious, Mystique had ransacked the papers of the ringleader, trying to find the name of the buyer. She’d been discovered by the ringleader, and it was the closest she’d come to killing someone since Trask. The ringmaster had been sufficiently cowed by her fury, and she’d promised to end his miserable existence if he ever came near Nightcrawler again. But she had her info and went hunting through Germany to find her baby.

 

Along the way, she’d fantasized about how she would greet her son. He would be a teenager, and have lived his whole life without her, but surely he’d realize that she was his mother, right? Their colouring was too similar for him to have not even entertained the idea. Maybe their reunion would be the tearful embrace she’d recognize on any TV set, or maybe he’d be angry with her for leaving him, for not looking hard enough.

 

Their meeting was neither of these things; he recognized her, but as the face of the mutant cause, not as a mother. Mystique had expertly quelled the urge to cry at the moment, when he looked at her with the same hero-worship she had come to despise from all the other mutants she saved.

 

Her plan had been to send him to Charles, like she had thought about doing during her pregnancy. He would protect him from any further harm, and he would  _ know _ , but be much too polite to say anything. That hadn't happened either, and events had spun in such a way that she was now teaching at Charles’s school, teaching the new generation of X-Men, her son, Kurt Wagner, included.

 

Most days, after training them rigorously in the new made Danger Room, Mystique threw up from the stress and anguish.

 

In an effort to distance herself from Kurt, to protect him  _ from _ her, she became a tyrant, pushing him harder than any of the other students. On the outside, it made sense; Kurt had a natural talent for fighting, but none of his father’s cruel drive to hurt others. Mystique suspected that, left to his own devices, Kurt would happily spend his time entertaining others, praying (her son was Catholic, of all things), and enjoying life. The baby she hadn't raised, who walked around with a name she hadn't given him, was probably the sweetest, kindest individual she’d ever known, without a mean, vindictive, or violent bone in his body.

 

So she pushed him, harder than the others, trying to harden him to a world that would hate him and fear him for the rest of his life. She wanted to give him the tools to defend himself, and if she became ‘Drill Sergeant Mystique’, she was fine with that.

 

“Nightcrawler, stay and gather all of the pieces and put them into the chute,” Mystique ordered. They had just finished their daily training exercises, and all of them were panting from the exertion.

 

“Yes ma’am!” Kurt called, standing up straight even though he looked like he was about to keel over.

 

“She always makes Kurt do it,” Mystique heard Scott grumble (they hadn’t figured out that she was able to hear them with her enhanced hearing), “Why does she hate him so much?”

 

“Maybe she doesn’t?” Ororo suggested, “Maybe she likes him and she has a weird way of showing it?”

 

“It’s awful, she’s abusing his good nature,” Jean said. Mystique noticed that all of them were lingering behind, waiting for her to leave so they could help Kurt with his task without getting him in trouble with her.

 

Not willing to participate in the battle of wills today, Mystique marched out of the Danger Room and quickly made her way to her room. She had insisted on a small room in a mostly unoccupied corner of the house, away from the students and faculty. The last time she’d lived in this house, she’d had a collection of rooms that was basically an apartment unto itself, now she had a single room with an attached bathroom, a bed, and a desk in a little forgotten corner of the expansive mansion.

 

Mystique hurried into her room and immediately went to her bathroom to throw up into the toilet. She was reminded of her pregnancy, when she vomited at a precise time every day for weeks. It was almost ironic that she was puking because of her son once again.

 

“Need someone to hold you hair back?” came a voice from her door. Mystique jolted, but quickly recognised Hank’s voice.

 

She rinsed out her mouth and exited the bathroom, cursing herself for leaving her door wide open. Being in the house again was making her too comfortable, “I’m fine,” she said.

 

Hank was leaning against the doorframe, his huge body almost blocking the door entirely. His yellow eyes watched her carefully, “Charles assigned me to tutor Kurt,” he said, “Thought you might like to know.”

 

“Oh yeah?” she said, “That’ll be good for him. You’re a great teacher. Will you be tutoring Ororo as well?”

 

Hank shook his head, “Ororo has had enough education that regular remedial classes through the summer will be enough to get her caught up. I don’t think Kurt has ever had a formal education.”

 

Mystique wanted to scream. The subject of Kurt was an odd one among the remaining original X-Men (including Charles and Erik); they all knew who Kurt was to her, but no one mentioned it out loud. They knew that Kurt didn’t know, so they never mentioned it to him, but they all (excluding Mystique) wondered what had happened to make it so that Kurt was estranged from her. All the while Mystique wanted nothing more than to gether her child in her arms and protect him from the whole wide world.

 

Kurt, probably, wouldn’t like that idea very much. As much as he’d travelled around, he was very unworldly, and quite innocent at times. It went beyond simply being from Germany to being almost completely isolated from society. Mystique very much so wanted to go back to the circus that had been Kurt’s home—before they had sold him like chattel—and rip them all to shreds.

 

Now that Kurt was out in society, he was absorbing everything like a very dry sponge, taking all of what American culture had to offer and then some. Mystique might have been worried if he hadn’t also gained a protective little gang that guided him through the tumultuous twists and turns of society. She was grateful that they seemed to protect him so fiercely and actually care about teaching him about a world that he knew nothing about.

 

What was most startling about Kurt, Mystique often thought, was how kind and forgiving he was. When she had overheard Ororo ask Kurt if he hated the people who sold him and put him in an electrified box and then an electrified cage to fight for others entertainment, his answer had made Mystique’s heart twist.

 

“I don't hate them. I pity them,” he said, “Do you know why? Because most people will never know anything beyond what they see with their own two eyes. I know that I am not to be feared, that I have so much love to give, and if others cannot see that, well . . . I suppose I should help them open their eyes.”

 

There wasn’t an unkind bone in his body, and it killed Mystique to know that she had had no part in cultivating that.

 

“Why are you telling me this?” Mystique asked.

 

Hank narrowed his eyes, “We both know why.”

 

It was the closest any of them had ever come to saying it outright. Mystique stayed quiet.

 

“Are you ever going to tell him?” Hank asked, “He deserves to know, doesn’t he?”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, her tongue like clay in her mouth.

 

Hank sighed, “Of course you don’t.” He sounded so disappointed that she nearly threw the paperweight on her desk at him. Hank stopped leaning on her doorway and walked away down the hall, leaving Mystique alone with her thoughts.

 

* * *

 

“Professor?” Wanda called, knocking on Xavier’s office door, “You wanted to talk to me?”

 

“Yes! Come in!” Xavier called through the door, “I’ll be with you in just a moment.”

 

Wanda opened the door and stepped inside; Xavier was looking quite frazzled, organizing files and talking into a phone at the same time.

 

“Just a minute,” he said to her again, then into the phone, “Yes, that’s what we agreed . . . No, we can discuss that at a later date . . . Alright . . . Yes, thank you . . . Goodbye.” He hung up with a groan, “Sorry about that. Yes, I wanted to ask you a few things about your mutation.”

 

Wanda waved away his apology, “It’s okay, I know you’re busy,” she said, “What did you want to know?”

 

Xavier smiled at her, “Well for starters, what exactly can you do? I’m sure fixing broken cups isn’t the only thing in your repertoire.”

 

Wanda chuckled, “No, not the only thing,” she said, “I can . . . Well it’s hard to explain.”

 

“I’ve got plenty of time,” Xavier lied smoothly. Wanda appreciated it.

 

“I can fix things,” Wanda said, “But it’s not just ‘fixing’, it’s more like ‘healing’. Fixing things that are broken, making things like new again, healing people or animals. I can also move things around with my mind.”

 

“Like telekinesis?” Xavier asked.

 

“No, not really, more like . . .” she trailed off, not really knowing how to put it, “It’s more like manipulating energy. Here, I’ll show you.”

 

Wanda let her powers through, concentrating on taking a sheet of paper on Xavier’s desk and folding it into a paper rose. Red tendrils of light danced over the paper as they shaped it how Wanda wanted it.

 

“Marvelous,” Xavier said, eyes alight with fascination.

 

Grinning, Wanda took it a step further and murmured a transfiguration spell. The paper rose shimmered and transformed from paper into a real rose. Xavier’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head.

 

“How on earth did you do that?” Xavier asked, plucking the rose from the air as Wanda let it go.

 

“Well, that part’s kind of odd,” Wanda said, “When I travelled around Europe, I had a mentor who taught me how to control my powers.”

 

“How so?” Xavier asked, turning the rose over in his hands.

 

“She taught me spells,” Wanda said. At Xavier’s raised eyebrow, she sighed, “Yeah, I know it sounds silly, but the spells kind of work like a conduit. I never really understood what my powers really are, but using spells, I could sort of make it do what I wanted.”

 

“Fascinating. So you have to channel your gifts through a magic spell?” Xavier asked.

 

“Not all the time. Little things I don’t, but if I want to do something more complex, like turn a fake flower into a real flower, I have to use a spell so I know what exactly I’m doing,” Wanda explained.

 

“I think I understand,” Xavier said, “So you have this energy that you can control, but you can change the structure of things by using spells as a precision tool.”

 

“More or less I think,” Wanda said, “I still don’t really understand my powers most of the time. I can just  _ do _ things, just make things happen to suit me. It’s weird.”

 

“Hmm, I think this warrants further study,” Xavier said, “If you’ll allow Hank and I to take some tests, we might be able to get you some answers.”

 

Wanda shrugged, “Sounds fine to me,” she said. Something occurred to her, “None of these tests would be potentially harmful to an unborn baby, would they?”

 

Xavier blinked, “Um, not that I’m aware of,” he said, “Why do you ask?”

 

Wanda paused a beat, waiting for Xavier to comprehend. When he did, his eyebrows shot upwards, “Oh! Oh goodness, of course. I’ll talk to Hank about it right away, if that makes you feel more comfortable.”

 

Wanda smiled, “Thank you, that would make me feel better,” she said, “It’s . . . it’s not going to be a problem, is it?”

 

Xavier actually looked a little offended at the notion, “I should say not,” he said, “If anyone gives you any trouble about it, you come straight to me and I’ll sort it right out.”

 

Wanda laughed, “Thanks,” she said.

 

Xavier almost seemed excited about it, “We’ve never had a baby born at the school, so this will be a first,” he said, “We’ll of course provide a safe place for you and your child. Let me know if you need anything, and I’ll do my best to procure it for you.”

 

Wanda smiled, “Thank you Professor, that means a lot,” she said, “I’ll be sure to tell you if I—if  _ we _ need anything at all.”

 

Xavier beamed, “Happy to help,” he said, “Now, lunch should be served soon. Oh, should I speak to the cooks about getting you a special diet?”

 

“I think I should talk to a doctor before we go doing anything drastic,” Wanda laughed, “Do you know any OB-GYN’s in the area that are okay with mutants?”

 

“Not presently, but I’ll have a list for you as late as tomorrow,” Xavier said, “I’ll come find you tomorrow, how does that sound?”

 

Wanda nodded, “Sounds fine to me.” She stood up and stretched, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

“Tomorrow,” Xavier said, “Congratulations, by the way.”

 

Wanda smiled, “Thank you,” she said, then left to find her brother. She actually was pretty hungry.

 

* * *

 

Kurt sat patiently as he waited for Dr. McCoy organize his papers. Kurt had been informed by the Professor that Dr. McCoy was going to be his tutor to get him up to the same level that the rest of his classmates were at. He was really quite excited.

 

“Alright Kurt, I want to ask you some questions before we begin,” Dr. McCoy said, adjusting his glasses with one clawed hand, “We did some tests earlier, but your scores were really inconsistent across the board.”

 

“Sorry,” Kurt said, hunching in on himself a little. He hoped Dr. McCoy wasn’t angry with him.

 

Dr. McCoy looked up, “You don’t have to say sorry Kurt,” he said, giving him an odd look. Kurt hadn’t yet learned to predict or decipher Dr. McCoy’s moods, so he had to be careful.

 

Dr. McCoy turned back to his papers, “So, Kurt, have you had any formal education?” he asked.

 

Kurt tried to think, “Um, Hochwürdiger Feigenbaum taught me the bible in the off seasons,” he said for lack of a real answer.

 

“Did you ever go to school?” Dr. McCoy prompted, “Like a classroom with teachers?”

 

“Oh!” Kurt exclaimed, finally understanding, “No I never went to anything like that. I’m too stupid for regular school.”

 

Dr. McCoy dropped the pen he’d been fiddling with and looked stricken, “Why would you say that?” he asked, bending to pick up his pen.

 

Kurt shifted uncomfortably in his chair, “My Pflegemutter told me.”

 

Now Dr. McCoy looked suspicious and maybe a little wary, “Your foster mother told you that you were too stupid to go to school?”

 

Kurt nodded, “Ja, so I wasn’t allowed to go to classes when we were settled in a place long enough for the other children to go to classes. It’s okay though!” Kurt said when he noticed Dr. McCoy’s expression of despair, “When I was little, I was in the Freak-show, and the other freaks taught me sums and some little things they knew. Books and history and things. They were very nice to me,” he said, “I kind of wanted to leave the circus with them, but the Zirkusdirector wouldn’t let me. He made me be an acrobat.”

 

The retrieved pen snapped in Dr. McCoy’s hand. Kurt flinched, wondering if Dr. McCoy would berate him for not trying harder. He’d seen that Dr. McCoy could fight, but he didn’t seem like a violent man. Kurt had been wrong before about people, but he wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.

 

Dr. McCoy set down his pen and took a deep breath, “Kurt, you are not stupid,” he said, “You are an incredibly bright young man, and I’m here to prove that to you.”

 

Kurt tilted his head, “Really?” he questioned. He’d gotten the impression that Dr. McCoy didn’t like him, or at least didn’t like to be in the same room as him.

 

When Kurt had come to the school after Cairo, he’d been incredibly excited. Not only was he surrounded by other mutants, something he’d never experienced before, but he looked up to both Mystique and Dr. McCoy, thrilled beyond description that he had not one, but two other people who looked like him. He found that many of the other children didn’t share his anxieties about other people, they could pass through crowds undetected as mutants. Kurt, however, was quite obviously a mutant, and couldn’t fool anyone if he tried. The trip to the mall had been his first time in public without a cloak or hood to hide himself.

 

His delight in all America had to offer him diminished slightly when it became clear that Mystique and Dr. McCoy both didn’t like him at all. Kurt was sure that they had their reasons, but he couldn’t think of what he’d done to make them dislike him so much. He must have  _ done _ something, because it didn’t make much sense that they hated him for his looks, like most people did, they looked like him.

 

Still, even if they didn’t like him, Kurt fought for their approval. He’d always idolized Mystique after seeing her face on the little portable TV that Zirkusdirector Baum had carted around with them. That had been the first time Kurt had even known other people  _ could _ look like him. Discovering that Dr. McCoy also looked like him had made him so happy. It had hurt quite a bit when they both seemed to reject him.

 

But Kurt had learned long ago not to make a fuss, to take life as it was presented to him. He was not supposed to lead, he was to be directed. That’s what he’d been taught, because he was an abomination of nature and no one but the circus wanted him.

 

To hear that Dr. McCoy, someone that he looked up to and wanted to please, thought he was smart was something he’d never heard before, and made something warm curl inside him.

 

Dr. McCoy smiled at him, though his eyes looked sad, “Yes Kurt, you’re very smart,” he said, “So, why don’t we start with your writing skills? You can read at a normal level—an advanced level, actually, but on your tests you didn’t do that well in writing.” Dr. McCoy turned to the board and grinned over his shoulder, “Sound good?”

 

Kurt beamed under the attention, “Yes sir!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to give Kurt a mentality of someone who's been emotionally abused all his life, told basically he was only being kept around because he was able to make money and he was useful, but at the same time believes the best in people and loves humanity. It's a very complicated balance and I'm not sure if I'm pulling it off. If anyone has any tips for me, please leave them in the comments.
> 
> Also Wanda's powers were explained weird here but there's a reason for that.
> 
> Pflegemutter means foster mother, and Hochwürdiger is what a very pious Catholic would call a priest in German.


	7. Night and Fog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back with another chapter. It feels a little like the story is meandering right now, but I want things to move slowly for now. Things will pick up in maybe a chapter or two. I'm one of those writers who knows my destination, but not so much the path I'm taking to get there.

_ Erik was in the crematoria, watching the latest batch of people undress with the disinterest he’d cultivated over the years. He felt more preoccupied with the latest batch of sores up his arms from Schmidt’s  _ (no, his name was Shaw, wasn’t it? No, that was later) _ experiments. He wanted to close his eyes, turn away, preserve the last of these poor soul’s modesty, but he couldn’t muster the energy. _

 

_ “Papa, are you coming into the shower with us?” _

 

_ Erik’s stomach lurched. Standing before him was Magda and Nina, stripped down like the rest, their naked bodies familiar to him, but foreign. They were so skinny. Starved to the brink of death. Bones jutted out, like their skin had been stretched over a drum. Their eyes were dull, dead, but staring accusingly at him. Two horrible matching wounds on their chests bled sluggishly, a black mud that was pooling at their bare feet. _

 

_ Erik’s heart pounded in his chest, “No,” he said, mouth moving without his command, “Please step this way,” he said robotically, screaming in his mind. _

 

_ The mass of prisoners had vanished, and now it was only Magda and Nina, following him dutifully to their deaths. Erik could do nothing to stop it. He led them to the gas chamber and motioned them inside. _

 

_ Nina looked up at him, “You should come inside with us,” she said. _

 

_ “Yes, I should,” Erik said, but he didn’t move. He wanted to reach out to his daughter, he wanted to take her far away. He couldn’t let this happen. Erik slowly closed the door and locked it, stepping back so he couldn’t look through the peephole. _

 

_ There was a rushing noise, then the scratching and banging of hundreds of hands, desperate to get out. All went quiet, and then there was a sucking noise as the gas was vented out. _

 

_ Erik moved towards the door to open it. As he grasped the handle, it disintegrated into dust. The whole building began to rumble and crack around him. He was destroying it, he was reaching down, deep into the earth and destroying this place. He was going to rip the world apart. Erik was going to tear the world down to his feet, make them suffer as he had suffered. He was going to erase it all, so there was nothing left, so he was nothing, so nothing could harm him again. He would become a part of the earth, he would join his Nina, Magda, his mother and father, everyone he’d lost. He would join them in the earth that he’d buried them in. _

 

_ Erik opened his mouth and took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the ashes of his people, cloying and thick, the hot sand of Cuba, humid with the scent of the ocean, and the dust of Cairo, burning and scratching his throat and lungs. He breathed deeper and deeper, falling back into the abyss, into the cold womb of the earth that he’d buried his precious treasures in. _

 

_ He would finally be at peace. _

 

Erik jolted awake with a strangled cry bubbling up in his throat. The lingering images of the nightmare swirled before his eyes as they adjusted to the darkness of his room. He was panting as if he’d just run a marathon, and he noticed that he’d sweated through his shirt as it cooled on his skin, making him shiver.

 

Sitting up, Erik tried to chase away the nightmare, rubbing his eyes as the dead eyes of his daughter hovered in his memory. He glanced at the clock, 3:41 AM, early enough to go back to sleep, but Erik didn’t feel like going back to sleep so soon.

 

Erik groaned and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The house was quiet, everyone else sleeping soundly. Erik stood and slipped on his slippers, heading out into the hallway.

 

As he walked, Erik pondered what he was doing. Not just at the moment, walking through the halls of the school his closest friend and worst enemy had set up to teach their people to use their gifts and to protect them from the world that would see them annihilated in the middle of the night, but in general. What was he going to do with the rest of his life? Rebuilding his life seemed like an impossible task.

 

The last time he’d had to rebuild his life, ten years ago, he’d at least had a sense of what he was doing. He hadn’t rebuilt the mutant cause like he’d thought he would, but he’d at least had goal in mind. Erik didn't do well without a goal, without some kind of endgame he was working towards. He could only name a handful of times in his life when he didn't have something to do. His hunt for Shaw had consumed his youth, and his mid adulthood he’d spent working for mutantkind, knowing that he couldn't let the same thing that had happened at Auschwitz happen to mutants. He’d spent many years imprisoned, but always with the ultimate goal of mutant protection in mind. In his liberation, he’d thought he’d continue his work.

 

However, Erik had become desperate for something he’d lacked since his early childhood, some atrophied part of his brain suddenly waking up to a clawing, howling desire for a family. He hadn’t realized how loud it was screaming in his head until he’d met Magda, his beautiful Magda. Her long dark hair had attracted him first, swinging down her back in dense curls.

 

For just a moment, he’d thought it was another woman from his past, Marya Maximoff, his camp companion. He hadn’t thought of her in so long that it was almost jarring. He felt bad, she’d been such an important part of his life, but she’d been swept to the side to make room for his revenge against Shaw. Now of course, he recognized a pattern in his attractions; dark curly hair.

 

Which, in turn, made him think of Charles. The telepath was his opposite in how their lives had played out; Charles, the child of wealth, luxury, and privilege, and Erik, survivor of the worst atrocity of the 20 th century. And yet they had come to the same time and place and found common ground, only to be pushed apart by difference of ideology.

 

Erik closed his eyes for a moment, bringing forth a memory. Himself and Charles, drunk on cheap hotel wine, making out like horny teenagers on the floor, less than a foot from a bed. It hadn’t been either of their first times with another man, but it had been the first time Erik had thought he might be in love. It hadn’t been particularly graceful, drunk as they were, but he’d never laughed so much during sex, Charles laughing along with him. They’d rubbed each other off between sloppy kisses, leaving hickeys anywhere they could reach. The next morning hadn’t been plagued so much by awkwardness as it had by throbbing hangovers.

 

Erik’s mouth twitched at the fond memory. They’d had sex a few more times, always a little drunk, but never awkward in the morning, like all they had done the night before was chat over wine and a game of chess. In the many private moments he had during his stint at the Pentagon, Erik had wondered what they might have done if they’d let it develop more, into a real romance. If time and circumstance hadn’t taken it’s toll.

 

But the past was the past, and there was no turning back now. Erik rubbed his eyes and headed toward the kitchen. Maybe something warm but uncaffeinated to put him to sleep and relax him.

 

The light was on in the kitchen (the student kitchen where the students could make small things for themselves. There was a larger kitchen where meals were prepared by kitchen staff). Erik tread warily, years of living in hiding infecting his mentality. He peered around the corner of the entrance, only to see Wanda Maximoff (Maximoff?) munching her way through a bowl of . . . something.

 

“What are you eating?” he blurted out before he could think to say anything else.

 

“Plain yogurt and pickles,” Wanda answered, scooping up another bite of the concoction in her bowl, “My cravings are all over the fucking place.”

 

Erik furrowed his brows and looked more closely at Wanda. She was certainly curvy, probably naturally so, but there was a thickening at her lower belly that was tell-tale, as well as the familiar ‘mask’ on her face.

 

“You’re pregnant,” he stated.

 

Wanda looked up at him a grinned, “Good guess,” she said, “Still in the first trimester, but I’m getting along.” She lowered one hand to rub at her belly.

 

“Any nausea yet?” Erik asked, stepping closer.

 

Wanda seemed surprised that he was taking an interest, “Um, not really? I get a wicked headache around noon-ish when it’s really hot and bright out, but that’s about it.”

 

Erik nodded, trying to think back to Magda’s pregnancy, “How much dairy is in your diet?”

 

Wanda shrugged, “Not a clue,” she said.

 

“You should start keeping a food diary, to help you keep track of what you eat and what you’re craving,” Erik said, walking towards the cupboards to find the spices.

 

“Sounds like a good idea,” Wanda said, twisting to watch him, “What are you doing?”

 

“Spiced milk,” Erik said, “Hot milk with honey and spices, it’s good for expecting mothers.”

 

Wanda raised a dark eyebrow, “Really?” she asked.

 

Erik nodded, “It’s also good for getting back to sleep, so, two birds one stone.”

 

Wanda laughed, “Sounds like a plan,” she said.

 

Erik smiled and bustled around the kitchen, using his powers to gather the instruments he would need. Wanda turned her chair to watch him a little closer, and Erik put in a little flair to his work. It had been weeks since he’d had this much fun in the kitchen. He’d always loved cooking, and in the last ten years, he’d become quite good at it.

 

Finally he placed two mugs of spiced milk down on the table. Wanda pushed her empty bowl away and picked up her mug. She breathed deeply and hummed, “This smells amazing,” she said.

 

Erik smiled and sipped at his mug, “Thank you. It’s an old recipe,” he said. He went quiet for a moment, “I used to make it all the time for my daughter.”

 

Wanda paused in her sip, “Nina, right?” she asked, “She died?”

 

“Yes,” Erik said, staring down into his mug, “Nina.”

 

The two of them sat in contemplative silence for a while. Erik closed his eyes and tried to picture his daughter as he wanted to remember her, as a bright, happy child with her whole life ahead of her.

 

“I’m sorry,” Wanda said, “I mean, I’ve barely just started, but I can’t imagine losing . . . I’m sorry.”

 

Erik looked up at her; she was staring down into her mug intensely, and he had the thought that the two of them must have looked quite similar, glaring so fiercely into their mugs of spiced milk.

 

“Thank you,” he said, in lieu of anything else. It fixed nothing, but the sentiment was nice.

 

There was a rush of air announcing the presence of Peter, “Hey, what are you doing up?” he directed towards his sister, saying to Erik, “Hey man.”

 

“Evening,” Erik said.

 

“Or morning, depending on your point of view,” Wanda said.

 

Erik chuckled and raised his mug to her, “Fair enough,” he said, and they both chuckled.

 

Peter seemed to relax a little, “What are you drinking? Not caffeinated right? You’re not supposed to have caffein.”

 

“Spiced milk.” She lifted her mug, “Erik made it for me.”

 

“He did, did he?” Peter turned towards Erik, giving him an odd look that Erik couldn’t decipher, “That was nice of him.”

 

“It was,” Wanda said, with a layer of  _ intent _ underneath it, something Erik couldn’t quite pick out, “You want the rest of mine?” She lifted her mug.

 

“You finish yours,” Erik said, standing up and stretching, “He can have mine, I’ll be alright. Goodnight you two.”

 

“Goodnight,” Peter said, settling into Erik’s vacated chair. He took a sip from the half-finished mug, “This is really tasty.”

 

“Night Erik,” Wanda said, even as she leaned into her brother’s shoulder, closing her eyes She looked like she could fall asleep at any moment.

 

“Get some rest you two,” Erik said, leaving them in the kitchen. He felt much calmer now, maybe he would be able to sleep for a few more hours.

 

* * *

 

“We need to tell him,” Wanda said the next day (or later that morning, technically).

 

“I know we do, but it’s hard to bring up,” Peter said, “I’ve been trying to think of a way to bring it up, but he’s not being helpful.”

 

Wanda sighed and rubbed her eyes, “Of course not, he doesn’t have a clue and he just lost his wife and child,” she said, “He’s not going to follow a script.”

 

Peter huffed, “I’ve tried to bring it up casually, but it hasn’t worked. Any other heavier time just seems like too much.”

 

Wanda turned to the window, trying to think of a solution. It was an oddly cold morning, and fog rolled across the grounds, the morning sunlight giving making an ethereal glow that cast the whole world in a golden haze. It was very pretty, really, “We should just take him aside and tell him.”

 

“Rip off the bandaid?” Peter paraphrased.

 

Wanda turned back to him, “Precisely.”

 

Peter crossed his arms, “And what about Mom, huh? When are you going to rip off that bandaid?”

 

Wanda groaned, “Pietro, please,” she said, “One thing at a time.”

 

Peter huffed, “You still need to talk to her you know. I know you and mom don’t get along, but she’s our  _ mom _ , and she deserves to at least  _ know _ , don't you think?”

 

Wanda pressed a hand to her lower abdomen, “Yeah, I guess,” she said, “I’ll phone her, tomorrow,” she promised.

 

“Today,” Peter said, making Wanda roll her eyes, “If I let you procrastinate, you’ll put it off forever.”

 

“A week at most is not forever,” Wanda protested.

 

“It is when you move as fast as I do,” Peter pointed out, “Call her today, and tomorrow we’ll tell Erik,” he said.

 

Wanda took a deep breath, “Sounds like a plan,” she said flatly.

 

Peter was silent, watching her. He sighed and ran a hand through his silver hair, “I know it’s gonna suck, but it’s gonna happen sometime,” he said, “I’ll be here with you.”

 

“You sure you won’t take her side?” Wanda snapped, losing her patience. She could almost feel the hurt radiating off of her brother, “Sorry, that was mean and petty.”

 

“You’re damn right it was,” Peter huffed. He was suddenly gone, only the fluttering of papers to signal his departure.

 

Wanda sighed again and ran a hand through her hair. She’d tried to be a good child, really she had, but she and her mother clashed so horribly sometimes. Marya was deathly afraid for her daughter, trying to reign her back at every turn, stifling Wanda to the point where she thought she would suffocate. When her powers emerged, that fear had directed itself at  _ her _ instead of the world. Mom would hardly  _ look _ at her, and though she had the same reaction to Peter at first, it had been stronger with Wanda, had lingered longer. This kind of schism between mother and daughter hadn’t been given the time it needed to heal. Instead, Wanda had asserted her independence by running away to Europe.

 

Marya had gone ballistic, demanding that Wanda return home immediately and threatening to disown Wanda unless she returned from the horrible influence that was Europe. Wanda had accused her of trying to control her life, of protecting her from invisible shadows, projecting her victimhood onto Wanda (she wasn’t proud of that last one, but she’d been young and upset).

 

Wanda had returned briefly, not wanting to drive the family apart permanently, but it had only caused more problems. Wanda’s powers were more out of control than ever, and she’d nearly destroyed the house after losing her temper. Marya would hardly speak to her after that, the fear evident in every movement. So Wanda had left again, without a whisper of protest from her mother. She’d seemed almost  _ glad _ to see Wanda go.

 

They hadn’t really talked since then, though she’d written letters to Peter, missing him too much to shut him out of her life completely. He’d initially been upset with her for leaving, for abandoning him and their mother and her string of boyfriends, each more enabling of her drinking than the last. However, they had reconciled during her disastrous visit home. He’d offered to go with her, but Wanda had insisted that they needed to break from each other, or they would never be able to stand on their own without the other. Peter hadn’t been pleased, but he’d understood.

 

Which brought them to the present; Wanda had barely spoken to her mother in seven years, and even then it was only stilted, polite conversation. How was she going to tell her mother that she was pregnant out of wedlock?

 

_ “Well, it’s not like she has any leg to stand on,” _ Wanda thought ruefully, thinking of the circumstances of her own birth. With a sigh, she got up to go down to have some breakfast. She was not going to call her mother on an empty stomach.

 

Borrowing the phone was the easier part; there was a specific room with a telephone set up for students to call their homes, if those homes would accept their calls. Xavier must have suspected something, he gave her such a sympathetic look.

 

The hard part came in actually  _ making _ the damn call. Wanda groaned and rubbed her face, trying to muster up the courage. That’s what she got for taking the piss out of Peter for not telling Erik about them.

 

Taking a deep breath, Wanda picked up the phone and dialed quickly, not letting herself pause. She held the receiver to her ear and waited, praying that her mother was out, or missed the call.

 

“Hello?” came her mother’s voice, “Maximoff residence.”

 

“Hey mom,” Wanda said, closing her eyes. As much as they were at odds, Wanda had always longed for the sweet, loving relationship of mother and child, like she read about in books and saw on TV. Marya Maximoff was not exactly a nurturing woman.

 

“Wanda,” Marya said, sounding startled, “Did something happen?”

 

Wanda rolled her eyes, “No, nothing happened mom,” she said.

 

“Oh,” Marya said. There was an awkward pause, “How’s Europe?” she asked eventually.

 

“It’s fine,” Wanda said, refraining from her usual smartassery, “I’m actually back in the States now.”

 

“Oh really? Since when?” Marya asked. Wanda could hear ice clinking into a glass.

 

Wanda clenched her teeth to stop herself making a comment on it, “About a week ago,” she answered.

 

“Where are you staying?” The sound of liquid being poured into a glass. Whiskey probably, or brandy if she was out.

 

“With Peter,” she said, “It’s nice up here, actually. I think I’ll stick around.”

 

“Good, that’s good,” Marya said absently, “Is that all?” She sounded like she desperately wanted to hang up the phone.

 

Wanda took a deep breath, “Actually, I needed to tell you something,” she said. Here went nothing.

 

“What?” Marya asked.

 

“I’m pregnant,” Wanda said, “And I’m keeping it.”

 

A long silence followed, “Where’s the father?”

 

“In Europe where I left him I guess,” Wanda said, not mentioning that she wasn’t exactly sure of the identity of the father.

 

“Oh you stupid, stupid,  _ stupid _ girl,” Marya moaned, “What did you  _ do _ !?”

 

Wanda bristled, “What do you mean ‘what did I do’? You have three kids, you  _ know _ what I did.”

 

“Wanda,” Marya snapped, “This isn’t the time for your comments. You need to come home and we’ll fix this.”

 

“So  _ now _ you want me to come home,” Wanda spat, “And I’m not going to  _ fix _ anything. This is my baby and I’m keeping it.”

 

“Wanda, don’t do this. Don’t ruin your life like this. Don’t make the same mistake I did,”

 

“So me and Pietro were a mistake, were we?” Wanda hissed, “That sure explains a lot.”

 

“Now that’s not fair,” Marya said, “Don’t twist my words around like that.”

 

“Oh I think you’re twisted enough without me,” Wanda said, “Bye mom, we’ll talk some other time.”

 

“Wand—!” Wanda slammed the phone down, trying to reign in her anger. She took a few deep breaths, but when red light started flickering around her, she turned and stomped outside.

 

Xavier spotted her stalking through the halls, “Wanda? Is everything alright?” he called, turning and following her.

 

“Fine,” Wanda snapped, “Just need to let off some steam.”

 

Xavier looked concerned, and he continued to follow her until she found her way outside. He cursed as he had to maneuver himself around to the ramp. Wanda didn’t wait for him to catch up, walking through the grounds and looking for something she could use her powers on. A bifurcated tree lying abandoned to the side of a pond caught her eye. Taking a deep breath, she let her powers rush over it.

 

Her first instinct was to destroy it, unmake it into nothingness.  _ To destroy is our first instinct, to nurture is our second _ , Agatha’s voice rang in her head. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on healing. Mindless destruction was beneath her.

 

The two halves of the tree shuddered, creaking as they were lifted from the ground and cleaved back together. Organic material was harder to heal than a glass mug, so she focussed herself. Wanda sank herself into her power, muttering healing spells, trying to fix the damage. The tree wasn’t completely dead yet, which made it easier, but it still took a moment for the spells to start working.

 

As the trunk healed itself, Wanda turned her attention to the roots, guiding them back into the earth, making them sink into the cold ground and anchor themselves. She took a deep breath and felt the life thrumming through the tree, back the way it was before whatever happened to destroy it so. Wanda let the breath out and let her powers dissipate.

 

“Remarkable,” Xavier said, finally having caught up to her, “You fixed my grandfather’s tree.”

 

“Yeah well, I was mad,” Wanda said, “My mentor told me not to destroy stuff when I’m mad, to fix something instead. It’s more satisfying. So she says.”

 

Xavier watched her for a minute, “May I ask what happened?”

 

Wanda sighed, “Told my mom about the baby,” she said, “She didn’t take it well, surprise surprise.”

 

“I see,” Xavier said, “You don’t get along with your mother?”

 

“No, not really,” Wanda said, “It’s complicated.”

 

Xavier huffed out a laugh, “I know what that’s like,” he said, “I never got on with my mother either.”

 

Wanda looked down at him; he smiled up at her, “Why don't we go back inside? I can make you some tea if you’re still feeling upset.”

 

“No, that’s alright,” Wanda said, “I do have some free time though, if you wanted to take some of those tests.”

 

“Marvelous idea, I’ll let Hank know,” Xavier said, wheeling along back up the path. Wanda looked back at the tree one last time before following him up the path, back towards the house.

 

* * *

 

When Kurt was growing up, he had been told every day that he was a freak. At first, that hadn’t really affected him; of course he was a freak, he was in the freak show with the other freaks like him. As he got older he began to understand the subtle differences in what the people around him meant when they told him what he was. Kurt was unnatural, too freakish even for some of the freaks, a demon child.

 

His childhood protector, Saffé, another freak like him, had done her best to keep him sheltered from it all. But the many puffy lumps that littered her body had become cancerous, and she’d died when he was seven (Kurt remembered that they felt so soft and pillowy, he hadn't thought that they could hurt anyone until Saffé withered away and died), leaving him to defend himself.

 

His Pflegemutter, Margali, on the other hand, had little use for him other than guaranteeing her a meal and her own little tent to tell fortunes in. She had no time for him other than to scold him for demanding her attention and to let him know how lucky he was that she’d discovered him by the river as a newborn. It had been her favorite game to play with him.

 

“Your umbilical cord wasn’t even shrivelled up yet,” she loved to tell him, “Your poor mother must have took one look at you and screamed. She didn't even give you a proper blanket, just an old coat. They took you to the river to drown you, but when they saw it was frozen over, they just left you. It wasn't worth the effort it took to chip away the ice,” she would say, then finish with, “You’re lucky I took you in. Without me you would have died in the cold. You should be grateful that I took you in and raised you like my own child.”

 

Kurt had been grateful to her, had believed every word from her mouth because what better did he know? Margali was older and smarter than him so she must know better. As he got into his teens, he began to see the flaws in her game, but it was too late to shrug her off, she’d had too much influence over his life.

 

When Kurt was five, the talks about dismissing the freak show had started, and Margali had insisted that Kurt be trained as an acrobat. Kurt was the insurance she used to stay in the protection of the circus, he made too much money to just sweep to the side. She took most of that money for herself, leaving Kurt with only pennies of his earnings (he’d worked odd jobs to earn a little extra to afford his clothes and food).

 

By the time he was ten he was in the acrobat act, and by thirteen he’d been the star of the show. He’d considered leaving with the freaks when they were finally dismissed when he was eight, but Kurt actually liked the acrobatics show better than the freak show, since the crowd cheered for him rather than jeered at him. Kurt had stayed and was the crown jewel of the circus, but only in title. Behind the scenes, he was mistreated and mistrusted.

 

Margali was a tyrant queen, taking his money and spending it on herself and her own children, Stefan and Jimaine. When Kurt had asked for a larger share of his earnings, she’d accused him of being ungrateful and punished him severely. The others in the circus had turned a blind eye, unable to do anything because Margali had situated herself as second in command next to the ringmaster. Others had simply laughed at Kurt, jealous of his natural talents and a little fearful of his appearance.

 

The turning point had come when Stefan had died under mysterious circumstances, and Margali had accused Kurt of murdering him. So he’d been boxed up and sold to the mutant fighting ring. His whole life, Kurt had been abandoned time and time again, and told his worth only came from his usefulness, which made adjusting to Xavier’s school quite difficult for him.

 

The Professor was a very kind man, the kindest Kurt had come across ( Hochwürdiger Feigenbaum had come close, but he’d also held the knife that carved the angelic symbols into Kurt’s flesh) and he seemed to have no ulterior motives. Kurt was actually growing frustrated; he must  _ want _ something from Kurt, everyone wanted something. He couldn’t figure out what he wanted. Even Kurt joining the X-Men was something the Professor made clear was to be Kurt’s choice.

 

So when the Professor had come and told Kurt he was to be tutored, Kurt felt like he was getting closer to what was supposed to be expected of him. He would throw himself into his studies as much as he did his training, and the Professor would be pleased with him and not abandon him. He would be useful and he could stay at the school.

 

Dr. McCoy was in the midst of trying to teach him about a man named Napoleon. Kurt was trying his best, but he honestly couldn’t figure out what made this important.

 

“I do not understand,” Kurt said, “Why must I learn about this man?”

 

Dr. McCoy sighed, and Kurt tried not to show how sorry he was to cause such frustration in the man. Dr.McCoy didn’t like to hear or see when he was feeling upset, for some reason, “It’s history Kurt. We use history to understand the way the world is now.”

 

“But this happened so long ago, how could it still affect us?” Kurt asked, looking down at the printed painting in his textbook. Napoleon Bonaparte stared impassively up at him, dressed in an elaborate white and blue uniform, hand tucked into his coat. Kurt thought he looked quite silly in such an outfit.

 

“You’d be surprised,” Dr. McCoy said, “He was the first leader to use the idea of nationalism to motivate his soldiers.” He looked at Kurt over his glasses, “Do you know what nationalism is? Nationalismus?”

 

Kurt thought about it and shook his head. Dr. McCoy hummed again, “Nationalism is kind of like pride in your country. You were born and raised in Germany, right? Are you proud to be German?”

 

Kurt shrugged, “I guess so,” he said. He could sense Dr. McCoy’s growing frustration and searched for something he could use to appease him, “But I knew a fire eater who was proud to be Russian. He would always talk about how great Russia was, even when everyone was sick to hear him talk. He almost got into a fight about it once.”

 

“That’s nationalism,” Dr. McCoy explained, “Napoleon was the first person to say to his people, the French in this case, that they were better because they were French, that being French was the best thing you could be and that they should make everyone else see how great France was. It’s the same tactic used today in a lot of politics.”

 

“Really?” Kurt asked, “How so?”

 

Dr. McCoy proceeded to spend the next forty-five minutes explaining the various ways nationalism had influenced the world, as well as how Napoleon’s radical ideas about rights for the people had eventually sparked the modern democracies that were now the norm.

 

“Oh, it’s almost time for dinner,” Dr. McCoy said, glancing at the clock and his watch to make sure, “We’ll pick up tomorrow.”

 

“Alright. Thank you for explaining Dr. McCoy,” Kurt said, gathering his books and papers. The funny little man in the painting was much more interesting now.

 

Dr. McCoy smiled, “That’s what I’m here for,” he said, “You’re very curious.”

 

Kurt lashed his tail, unsure if that was praise or criticism, “Sorry,” he said, just in case.

 

Dr. McCoy paused, “You don’t have to say sorry. It’s good that you’re curious. It means you really want to learn.”

 

Kurt smiled, “Thank you,” he said, “I’ll try to finish the reading by tomorrow.”

 

“Take your time to absorb the material and come to me with any questions,” Dr. McCoy said, “You know where my office is.”

 

Kurt nodded and smiled, then quickly left, not wanting to overstay and cause Dr. McCoy to be more exasperated with him. He was slowly learning what was expected of him here. He didn't want to be abandoned again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nightcrawler is my favourite character, but for some reason I have a really hard time getting into his head. This was in part my attempt to crawl (ha) into his headspace and figure out his mentality. I think I need more practise.


	8. Mourning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting to the real plot. Eventually. Slowly.

As the weeks passed along, as they were wont to do, Wanda felt herself settle down in a way she hadn’t felt herself doing since she was little. Ever since she was a child, she’d never felt satisfied staying in one place for long. Her mother had often joked that she’d been named well, since ‘Wanda’ was often thought to mean  _ wanderer _ . It was one of the reasons Wanda never Americanized her name the way Pietro had to ‘Peter’. Maybe it was the growing life in her, or the fact that she was finally back with her family, but she felt a contentedness to stay where she was for what was probably the first time in her life.

 

Speaking of her family, she and Pietro hadn’t managed to talk to Erik yet. They kept meaning too, but it never seemed right. Wanda regretted berating her brother for not telling him. He wasn’t as scary as they’d thought he might be, and was even nice and friendly sometimes, but there was a lingering air of unapproachability about him. When he wandered through the halls of the school, students parted like the Red Sea. No one but herself, her brother, Mystique, Dr. McCoy, and of course Professor Xavier, would dare speak to him, let alone take him aside for a private, personal conversation.

 

It was fine though; Wanda, unlike Pietro, had patience, and was willing to wait until Erik was in a more stable place emotionally to spring the big news on him. Pietro was chafing, she could tell, but he also wasn’t making a move. For all he was her older brother, he really took direction from her more than the other way around. She wanted to tell him before her baby arrived, but they still had time. She was only just starting to be noticeably pregnant as the weather began to get a little colder.

 

Having settled in for the long haul, she also had taken the time to let Professor Xavier and Dr. McCoy poke and prod at her to better understand her powers. After rigorous testing after several weeks, they might finally have the answer Wanda had been looking for when she ran away from home all those years ago.

 

“Your power is absolutely  _ fascinating _ ,” Dr. McCoy mused, more to himself than her.

 

Wanda sighed, “So I’ve been told. I thought you were supposed to be telling me why?”

 

Dr. McCoy cleared his throat, “Sorry, yes. Just give me a moment,” he said.

 

Xavier wheeled closer to get a better look at the sheets and sheets of papers, “Wanda, I think there’s much more to your powers than any of us realized,” he said.

 

“What does that mean? Can one of you explain please?” Wanda asked, getting annoyed now.

 

Dr. McCoy pushed his glasses up his furry nose, “From what our tests can determine, your power is to rearrange the structure of the universe on a quantum level. You don't just heal things, you make it so that it was never broken.”

 

Wanda blinked, “Which means what exactly? I turn back time?”

 

“Not precisely,” Xavier said, “It more like you manipulate probability on a scale that rewrites reality itself.”

 

“That doesn’t clear anything else up,” Wanda said, “I only barely finished high school guys.”

 

Xavier hummed and stroked his chin, “How to explain . . .” he pondered, “Imagine you had an apple,” he started, “Now imagine you wanted that apple to be a pear. The probability of that apple becoming a pear is so astronomically low that it’s barely conceivable. You have the power to change that. That apple goes from having no chance of becoming a pear to having every chance of becoming a pear. Reality shifts as a result, and the apple is now a pear. Do you understand?”

 

“I think so,” Wanda said, “So I basically change reality to suit me? Make myself queen of the universe? Raise the dead?”

 

“You could, if you had enough power,” Dr. McCoy said, “That’s the thing with these kinds of things. Powers like this are often really hard to use, and put a great strain on the user. You could try to remake reality, but there’s no guarantee how well it would stick or if you would even survive that kind of strain.” He shuffled through the papers again, “Fixing broken cups and healing dead trees are one thing, but something's probably shouldn’t be messed with.”

 

“Gotcha, no raising the dead,” Wanda said, “How am I supposed to know my limitations?”

 

“Trial and error, mostly,” Dr. McCoy said, “That part is a little trickier to figure out.”

 

“I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of them eventually,” Xavier said, patting her arm, “But I think we’ve kept you long enough.”

 

Wanda glanced at the clock, “Crap,” she cursed, “I’ll talk to you later,” she said as she left the examination room and made her way through the white halls of the underground facility.

 

It was nearly six, which meant that training was nearly done for the day. They were technically supposed to end at five, but Mystique was a hard mistress to please and often made them stay late until she was satisfied with their performances. The X-Men all complained, but it was undeniable that there was method to her madness. They were improving as a team in leaps and bounds, though they still had a long way to go.

 

Jubilee was waiting by the door when Wanda arrived; she beamed and waved the older girl over to sit with her, offering her some of the crackers she was snacking on. Wanda smiled and took one, not hungry, but wanting to assuage Jubilee of any guilt she might feel about eating in front of a pregnant woman. The younger girl had given them the title of X-Mascots, since they were either too young or too pregnant to be X-Men for the time being. They waited patiently for training to be done.

 

The doors to the danger room opened and the X-Men all shuffled out, groaning and battered. Only Nightcrawler wasn’t with them, once again being pulled back until Mystique was happy with him. Wanda had the feeling that Mystique would  _ never _ be happy him.

 

“I swear she has it out for him,” Peter groaned, flopping down beside his sister on the floor, “She always makes Kurt stay late.”

 

“She has  _ some _ kind of issue with Kurt,” Jean said, rolling her shoulder and sitting down on Jubilee’s other side, “I can tell, even without going into her head.”

 

“It’s really not our business,” Scott said, leaning against the wall, “I mean, Mystique’s our leader. If she thinks Kurt needs the extra training, shouldn’t we trust her?”

 

“Scott, don’t be such a tool,” Peter said, stealing the last of Wanda’s cracker, “Kurt probably has more fighting experience than you and Jean combined. Plus, he’s been in the circus his whole life, he’s an acrobat. He knows how to train his body.”

 

“Well, I  _ kind of _ get it,” Jubilee ventured, “Kurt’s so sweet natured, he doesn’t like to fight. Maybe she just wants him to toughen up?”

 

“That could be,” Ororo said, “But you could say similar things about Quicksilver, and she does not hold him back.”

 

“What kind of similar things?” Peter asked, raising an eyebrow, waiting to be offended.

 

“You’re both lazy and impatient at the same time,” Wanda said, “Not a great combination for team work.”

 

Peter huffed, “You’re all terrible friends.”

 

“I’m not you friend,” Wanda said, elbowing him, “I’m your sister.”

 

The others laughed and they continued waiting for Kurt to finish whatever horror Mystique had cooked up for him. It was nearly a half an hour before the resident blueberry came shambling out of the Danger Room. Kurt looked twice as tired as the rest of them. Fearing that he would simply fall asleep if they let him sit, the X-Men leapt up to go to him.

 

“Geez man, you gotta tell the Professor how much she beats on you. This is just mean,” Peter said, looking concerned.

 

Ororo grabbed Kurt’s arm and slung it over her shoulder, “She is taking advantage of your good nature.”

 

“I am okay,” Kurt mumbled, “I just need to do better next time.”

 

“You outperform us all the time, she just doesn’t like you,” Ororo huffed, “We should have words with her.”

 

“We should go to the Professor,” Jean insisted, “This is something for adults to handle.”

 

“If it needs to be handled at all,” Scott said, “Mystique will probably balance out in a while. She has to be doing this for a reason.”

 

“Scott, what did we just say about being a tool? Shut your face,” Peter said, zipping around to lightly smack Scott over the head, “You’re not being helpful.”

 

Scott grumbled, but Jean patted his arm, “It’s really up to Kurt to say something,” she said.

 

“I can handle it,” Kurt insisted, even as he leaned on Ororo, “Mystique is right. I need to tough up.”

 

“You can’t toughen up Kurt,” Jubilee protested, “Who’s gonna be my soft, squishy, sweet blueberry?”

 

The X-Men and the X-Mascot’s laughed, “Seriously Kurt, we’re here for you if you need us,” Jean said, “Just say the word.”

 

“X-Men stick together, no matter what,” Scott said.

 

Kurt smiled, “Danke, that’s very sweet of you all,” he said, “Right now I would like to nap for a while.”

 

They giggled and continued upstairs. The X-Men had to stop to change out of their uniforms, but Peter was back with Wanda in an instant.

 

“So? What’s the news?” he asked.

 

Wanda shrugged, “Apparently I change reality,” she said, “Or no, wait, I change probability so much that reality shifts. Or something like that.”

 

Peter raised his eyebrows, “Man, that’s some heavy shit,” he said, “And that’s the best they’ve got?”

 

Wanda shrugged, “I guess so. It sounded pretty impressive when they explained it,” she said, “Anyway, I’m hungry and eating for two, let’s go to dinner.”

 

“Sure thing, though it’s getting pretty late,” Peter said.

 

“Jubilee went up to save us a table. Besides, the kitchen knows by now to save your plates,” Wanda said, “And they know better than to stand between a pregnant woman and her food.”

 

Peter laughed, throwing an arm around her shoulders and heading for the elevator, “That they do.”

 

* * *

 

Hank was still preparing his lesson when Kurt wandered in. He looked exhausted, and Hank could see the beginnings of a bruise on his cheek. Kurt smiled at him and took his seat, eager to learn despite looking like he could sleep for a week.

 

“Are you alright Kurt?” Hank asked out of concern.

 

“Mh?” Kurt hummed, “Oh yes, I’m fine. Mystique is very thorough in her training, is all.”

 

“Is that so?” Hank questioned, “Have you asked her to maybe take it down a notch?”

 

Kurt’s yellow eyes nearly bugged out of his head, “Oh no no no! I can’t do that. I don’t want her to be mad with me.”

 

Hank almost missed the underlying fearful waver in his voice, “Kurt, she won’t be angry with you.”

 

“It’s okay, I don’t want to make any trouble,” Kurt insisted, hunching in on himself, like he expected to be yelled at or hit at any moment, “Really, I can take it.”

 

Hank tried not to grit his teeth, “It’s not a matter of whether or not you can take it, it’s more of whether or not it’s necessary,” he said.

 

“I’m not very aggressive,” Kurt said with a shrug, “I need to get tough.”

 

Hank could see this going nowhere fast, but he didn't want to give up, “Maybe, but there’s no need to push you so hard.” In Hank’s opinion, a less aggressive personality on the team would be better to add balance. Scott, Ororo, and Peter already had aggression covered.

 

Kurt shrugged, “I was pushed much harder in the circus. Sometimes until I passed out.”

 

In the weeks Hank had been tutoring him, Kurt had spoken often about his life in the circus, and while most of it sounded benign enough, there were more than a few chunks that made Hank’s hair (or fur, really) stand on end. His own issues with the boy aside, he didn’t like the idea of anyone hurting Kurt, for whatever reason.

 

“Well this isn’t the circus, this is a school, and you don't have to push yourself so hard, even when an adult tells you to,” Hank said.

 

“But you are always supposed to do what adults tell you to, aren’t you?” Kurt asked.

 

“Most of the time,” Hank agreed, “But sometimes adults take advantage of that, and make the people they’re responsible for do too much. See, adults are supposed to teach you how to be adults when you grow up, so you can be good adults as well. They’re not supposed to make you push yourself beyond your limits, or make you feel like you’re too stupid to learn anything.”

 

Kurt blinked up at him, as though this was something he’d never considered. Hank felt a stab of sympathy for the boy, “Let’s take it easy today. Give me your math assignment and I’ll give you your book assignment.”

 

Kurt shuffled through his bag and handed a sheaf of papers to Hank. In exchange, Hank gave him a copy of Mary Shelley's  _ Frankenstein _ , “I want you to read that by next week if you can, and be able to think of and talk about the themes and literary techniques I taught you the other day. Can you do that?”

 

“Yes sir,” Kurt said, taking the book carefully. From what Hank understood, the only ‘books’ Kurt had ever read had been religious texts. He’d thought about giving him John Milton’s  _ Paradise Lost _ , but thought maybe a break from religious themed literature might be better.

 

“Good,” Hank said, “That’ll be all for today. Go rest.”

 

Kurt nodded and gathered his things. He offered Hank a shy smile before scurrying off, leaving Hank to think about some things. With a deep sigh, Hank gathered his papers and headed to Charles’s office.

 

“Hank, just a moment,” Charles said, juggling his phone, a pen and paper, and a cup of coffee (Charles drank coffee when he was stressed and hadn’t slept).

 

Hank waiting until the phone was put down before launching into his tirade, not giving Charles a moment to speak, “You need to talk to Raven about Kurt. She’s being much too harsh on him in training.”

 

Charles blinked, “Is that right?” he asked, “This is the first time I’m hearing about it.”

 

“You’re busy,” Hank pointed out, “And Kurt insists that no one do anything about it, that he can handle it. He thinks this kind of treatment is normal.”

 

With a sigh, Charles sat back in his chair, “Not an ideal mentality, though I don’t know what you want me to say to Raven. She’s barely spoken to me since she arrived. I wouldn’t even know  _ how _ to broach the subject of Kurt with her.”

 

“She’s going to have to say something eventually,” Hank said, pacing around the room agitatedly, “We can’t all keep pretending that Kurt isn’t her kid with Azazel. She knows we’re not that stupid.”

 

It was the first time anyone had said it aloud.

 

“Yes,” Charles coughed, “Well, I’ll try and bring it up with her. No matter her . . .  _ relationship _ to Kurt, she shouldn’t be singling him out like that.”

 

“It’s not just that, it’s that he thinks it’s  _ fine _ for her to do that. He’s the only one who doesn’t see an issue with it, he won’t recognize manipulative or abusive behaviours. He was  _ raised _ to believe that he had to do whatever he was told or he’d be severely punished. He hates conflict of any kind and won’t stand up for himself,” Hank growled, working himself up as he paced. All he could think of was the conviction in Kurt’s voice when he’d said,  _ I’m too stupid for regular school _ .

 

Charles watched him pace around, “We’ve had children come from abusive backgrounds before. It’s not exactly uncommon for mutant children, unfortunately,” he furrowed his brows, “We both know this, but I’ve never seen you this upset about it.”

 

“I’m not upset,” Hank snarled, undermining his words.

 

“Of course not.” Charles rolled his eyes. He looked at Hank like he was trying to figure him out, “You’ve grown to care for Kurt, haven’t you?”

 

“What?” Hank stalled in his tracks, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“Exactly what it means, you’ve come to care for the boy,” Charles said, smiling now, “I’m glad you’ve come around to him, he seems like such a sweet child.”

 

Hank scoffed, “ _ Sweet _ hardly covers it. Kurt’s almost  _ saccharine _ . I prescribed him a strict diet to get his weight up, but he still insists on sharing his meals with anyone who even remotely looks hungry. He’s helpful and kind and cheerful, everyone loves him. On top of that, he’s extremely smart and possesses an innate desire to learn. Not just learn facts either, the when’s and how’s and where’s, but the why’s and what for’s too. He could be an amazing person one day, given the right cultivation.”

 

Charles’s expression had only grown more fond as Hank paced and talked, “And I’m glad he has you to be that cultivator,” he said, beaming, “I’ll talk to Raven, I promise. I’ll see if I can pencil in some time with Kurt, to help him get over whatever traumas he might be harboring. In the meantime, please, keep looking after him for me.”

 

Feeling a little overexposed after his outburst, Hank nodded, “Yeah, I’ll do that,” he said.

 

Charles smiled, “Thank you Hank, it really means—” he trailed off, turning to look out the window absently.

 

“Professor?” Hank called, growing concerned, “Are you okay? Charles?”

 

“Hm? Oh, just fine,” Charles said, still looking out the window as if searching for something, “Just thought I felt . . . something,” he said. He sighed and brought his hands up to rub his eyes, “Must be more tired than I thought.”

 

“You are looking a little ragged,” Hank said, eyeing Charles. He really did look like he hadn’t slept in a few days. It was harder to tell, now that he had no hair to muss up.

 

Charles sighed, “I think a break is in order,” he said, “A short one, at least.” He wheeled himself out from behind his desk and left his office, “I’ll speak to Raven, when I get the chance,” he promised again, before disappearing down the hall.

 

Hank sighed, then groaned and ran a hand through the fur on his neck. He didn't want to admit it, but Charles had a point; Kurt was endearing enough on his own, and perhaps Hank felt a small amount of kinship to him, the both of them being blue (and having both been abandoned by Raven), so maybe Hank was getting a little attached.

 

Shaking his head, as though to dislodge any such thoughts, Hank left Charles’s office, flicking off the light and closing the door behind him. He walked through the halls aimlessly, unsure of what to do with himself for the next hour, since this was usually the time he took for Kurt’s lessons. Figuring it would be awhile before he had any more free time, Hank went down to tinker in his lab. He’d left several personal projects by the wayside in all the chaos of getting the school running again, and now that he had a moment, he figured he might as well take a look at them again.

 

As he passed a common area, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Kurt napping on a couch. He was sprawled across Jubilee and Ororo, who in turn didn’t seem to mind his bony body draped across them. The other X-Men (plus Wanda) were all talking in hushed voices as not to wake Kurt. Hank felt something warm curl in his chest at the sight, but denied that it was any sort of affection. He wasn’t ready to admit that to himself.

 

* * *

 

Charles jolted awake several hours later and groaned. He’d planned to have a short nap and work through the night again, but instead it looked like it was nearly morning.

 

With a sigh, Charles hoisted himself out of the comfy, overstuffed chair he’d apparently spent the night in. It was early morning, so there was at least that. He catalogued in his head what needed to be done by the end of the day; he had to make six different calls, two to the government, one to a media outlet he trusted, two more to some of the school’s supporters to solicit more donations to go into repairs and staffing, and one last one to some merchants he knew that would sell him more furniture on the cheap.

 

A twinge in his head made Charles wince. Normally, he could run the school just fine on his own, with his own finances covering the cost of anything, but even he didn't have bottomless pockets, and he didn’t want to spend all his money in one place. So he made sure to make nice with his supporters across the globe, and asked them to donate money when they could. It wasn’t ideal, and he never got as much as he would like, but it took some of the pressure off. Charles was fortunate enough that his ancestors had made some smart investments that were still making money for him, but even then he didn’t want to overspend. It was a fine line he tread, and it was sure to keep him busy until the school was fully up and running again.

 

For all of this, he was extremely grateful for Erik and Jean and many of the other students who had helped rebuild. Not only did it bring them together as a community of mutants, but it also cut costs significantly. Other than that, he mostly had to worry about the fears of the humans that were putting pressure on the government to do something about the ‘mutant situation’.

 

With another long sigh, Charles situated himself in his wheelchair and went to his bathroom to wash and change. He’d grown so used to doing everything with only his upper body that he could go through his morning routine quite quickly.

 

Once he was freshly washed, shaved, and dressed in a clean suit, Charles made his way down to the communal kitchen to fix himself some tea and something to eat. It was early enough that the cooks were probably only starting prep now, so he didn't want to bother them.

 

Halfway through his tea and toast, Charles happened to look up and see movement out the window. He startled for a moment, then recognised the figure as Scott.

 

Curious as to why a teenager would be awake so early (teenagers, in his experience, were not early risers), Charles gulped down the last of his tea and wolfed down his toast. He wheeled himself out the side door and used his telepathy to find Scott.

 

The teen was sitting in a dilapidated gazebo that had escaped the explosion of the school. The stone benches must have been cold as all hell in the early morning air, but Scott sat resolutely, looking up at the house. He was talking aloud, though there was no one around. Charles was initially confused, but when he felt the overwhelming grief cascading off of Scott, he remembered.

 

The gazebo had been Alex’s favourite place on the grounds.

 

Charles’s throat closed, choking down the small noise he almost made. Alex hadn’t been as involved as Hank in the proceedings of the school, but he’d dropped by often enough that Charles had known what was going on in his life pretty consistently. The memory of waking up after the fiasco in Cairo and learning that Alex Summers was gone ripped through him like a hot knife. Gritting his teeth, he set aside his own pain and moved closer to Scott.

 

“Scott?” he called softly, “Are you alright?”

 

Scott jerked, having not noticed him until just then, “Professor,” he said, and brought a hand up to rub at his eyes under his glasses, “Wh-what are you doing out here?”

 

“I could ask you the same thing,” Charles said, wheeling himself up the ramp into the gazebo, “Who are you talking to?”

 

Scott cast his gaze down and hunched his shoulders, “Alex,” he mumbled, “Look, I know it’s stupid, but he said this was his favourite spot, so I . . . I come here to talk to him. When I . . . miss him.” Scott’s voice ended small and vulnerable, something Charles suspected the boy hated showing.

 

Charles let out a long sigh, “That’s very good of you Scott,” he said, “It’s good that you’re taking the time to process your grief.”

 

Scott sniffed and rubbed his eyes again. He situated his glasses back on his face and looked up at Charles, “You knew Alex for a really long time, right?”

 

Charles blinked, “Yes, since he was about your age I believe,” he said, “Or no, he was a little older, but you remind me very much of him.”

 

“Really?” Scott asked.

 

“Yes,” Charles said, smiling, “He had just come from juvenile detention, and had quite the chip on his shoulder. He was quite a thoughtful, quiet soul, really. I think he might have been a great scholar of he had inclined himself that way.” Charles’s voice went soft, “I’m going to miss him very much.”

 

Scott was quiet for a long moment, “Me too,” he said.

 

They sat in silence for a long time, sharing each other's grief. Charles knew it didn't compare to losing a brother, but he would carry the pain of loss just the same. He’d lost so many of the years that one might think he’d become thick skinned to it by now. But that just wasn't the case.

 

“He really thought highly of you you know,” Scott said a few minutes later, “He said you saved him.”

 

“That’s a pinch dramatic, but it sure does sound like Alex,” Charles said.

 

“He really liked coming here,” Scott went on, “He was really excited for me to come here too. I think he was going to stay for good and help out around the school.”

 

Charles let out a deep sigh, “He was.”

 

Scott looked over at him, “He told you?”

 

“Telepath,” Charles explained. 

 

“Right,” Scott said, “Jean said the same thing. That he thought I was going to be great.”

 

Charles smiled, “Well, I can’t see the future Scott, but I promise you that I'll take care of you, for your brother’s sake.”

 

Scott smiled, “Thanks Professor.”

 

Charles smiled back, feeling more relaxed than he had in weeks, “You’re very welcome Scott.”

 

They sat there for a while longer, the rising sun at their backs, cresting over the trees and making the mansion glow. Alex Summers floated like a ghost between them, content and quiet in the still morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I'm not a huge fan of Cyclops (or rather, I love to make fun of him), Alex really deserved better.


	9. Author's Note

Hey there readers! So you might have noticed that the last chapter got deleted. Don't worry, you're not going crazy and your computer isn't being a dick, I deleted the chapter. I'm in the process of doing some rewrites, and the last bit of the last chapter doesn't fit with them, so I had to delete it. If you go back to some of the other chapters, there are a few things that are changed, but it's mostly to do with Wanda's 'visions'. I've decided to write that power of hers out of the story. It doesn't really fit with what I have planned anymore, so I took it out. The changes are minor, and you don't really have to go back and reread anything to understand the story. Just know that Wanda's visions no longer are a part of the story.

Sorry guys! 'Epiphany' will be reposted with a new last section soon.


	10. Epiphany

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! The revised chapter is up and ready to be read. I'm much happier with this than the old version. I'm going to try to get the next chapter up soon but also studying needs to happen.

Mystique’s days were very much the same way everyday. Wake up, have a small, private breakfast, wash, and then walk around the grounds, brainstorming her next few lessons and which student needed to work on what. She spent a lot of this time trailing behind the X-Men, studying them. Then training on most days (every other weekday and then both weekend days), and then finally she went back to her room for a private dinner. During the night she wandered around the grounds, unable to sleep a full eight hours (and also paranoid, so she checked the grounds for trespassers).

 

The X-Men were a tight group, they worked well together and had a good dynamic. She was still trying to suss out who would be the best candidate for leader (she was mostly juggling between Cyclops and Storm, though all of them had decent potential), and observing them without them being aware of her was helping her greatly to figuring it out.

 

To a lesser extent, it allowed her to keep an eye on Kurt.

 

Mystique knew that the others were worried that she was being too harsh on him, and really, she feared that herself, but she couldn't help it. Kurt needed the tools to live in this cruel world more than any of them, since he couldn't ‘pass’ for human and she knew what that was like, at least on some level. It still made her physically sick each day, but she couldn't stop herself from pushing Kurt to be better, to be able to defend himself, to be the best he could be.

 

Today, she was wandering around in the guise of one of the cooks. She was sitting in one of the sitting areas, casually watching the X-Men chatter and horse around a little. Kurt looked tired, but cheerful, happily bouncing along with the conversations, though his movements were more subdued. He was turning a book over in his hands continuously, but Mystique wasn’t close enough to see the title.

 

“This is becoming unhealthy,” Hank said, leaning over the back of her chair where he had snuck up on her.

 

“How did you know it was me?” Mystique dodged.

 

Hank huffed, “You’re watching them like a hawk, it’s pretty obvious,” he said.

 

Mystique smiled a little and looked over her shoulder up at him, “Looking out for me?” she purred.

 

It was maybe her imagination, but Hank flushed under his fur, “Don’t try to distract me,” he grumbled, “You need to lay off Kurt.”

 

Mystique sighed, “I want to, but . . . I worry about him,” she said.

 

Hank mirrored her sigh, “And I get that, but you’re going to run him into the ground. He wants to please you, and he’ll do whatever you say to do so, even if it’s not in his best interest.”

 

“I know,” Mystique ran a hand through her brown hair (the cook had a light brown hair that was almost a kind of blonde), “I just want him to be able to defend himself. He’s so . . . timid, about fighting.”

 

“He’s a good person at heart. He believes the best in people,” Hank said. He chuckled, “He probably gets that from his uncle.”

 

Mystique couldn’t help giving a snort at that, “Charles will be delighted.”

 

They sat in silence for a while, watching the X-Men carouse with each other. Peter zipped around, create a wind that mussed everyone’s hair, then darted away as the girls lunged at him, laughing. Jean caught him with her telekinesis and tripped him, causing him to stumble a few steps. Having their retribution, the group calmed again.

 

“I’m trying to teach him how to be more critical of people,” Hank said, “Not so blindly trusting.”

 

“Good,” Mystique said, “That’ll be good for him. He’s very naive.”

 

They lulled for another moment, “I’m also trying to teach him self-worth,” Hank said, softer than before, “He’s got a lot of . . . issues. Traumas.”

 

Mystique closed her eyes, holding back the sting of tears, “Thank you,” she said.

 

Hank let out a deep sigh, “Are you ever going to tell him?”

 

For a moment, Mystique’s eyes landed on Peter and his sister, Wanda, and she thought of their secret, “I don’t know,” she admitted, “Maybe he’s better off without me.”

 

“I don’t think so,” Hank refuted, “I think he could really benefit from knowing.”

 

Mystique closed her eyes and recalled the memory of her baby, snuggled up in her arms, tiny and damp, “Maybe,” she breathed, “Maybe.”

 

The conversation lulled again. At some point, Kurt happened to glance over; his eyes lit up and he lept out of his seat. With a cloud of smoke, he was right next to them. Mystique’s heart clenched, thinking for all of a second that he was happy to see  _ her _ , but he turned towards Hank, tail lashing around excitedly.

 

Kurt held up the book, Mary Shelley’s  _ Frankenstein _ , “I love this book,” he exclaimed, eyes shining.

 

Hank raised an eyebrow, “Do you?”

 

Kurt nodded, “Es ist erstaunlich!” he said, forgetting English for a second, “Adam is so sympathisch a character.”

 

Hank chuckled, “Is that so? I’m glad you feel that way. It sounds like you’ll have a lot to talk about tomorrow.”

 

Kurt shifted his weight a little, casting his eyes down and then back up. Hank gave a crooked grin, “Do you want to talk about it now?” He laughed when Kurt nodded vigorously, “Alright, why don’t we go to my office?”

 

“Thank you sir,” Kurt said, eyes alight, hugging the book to his chest.

 

Hank began walking off, putting a hand on Kurt’s thin shoulder, “It’s my pleasure Kurt,” he said, “If you’re finished with  _ Frankenstein _ , I can give you another book. Have you read  _ The Hunchback of Notre Dame _ ?”

 

Kurt shook his head, “Notre Dame is the big cathedral in Paris, I’ve always wanted to go.”

 

Hank chuckled, “Maybe you’ll see it one day,” he said.

 

Mystique watched them go, yearning for Kurt to turn his eyes on her, to see her the way she wanted to be seen. Closing her eyes, she tried to harden her heart, to shut away the despair, but this was one hurt that wouldn’t be ignored.

 

* * *

 

Despite his best efforts, Wanda and Peter had somehow wiggled their way into Erik’s daily routine.

 

He was quite certain on how it happened; the two would actively seek him out most days, and he, perhaps because of Wanda’s pregnancy and Peter’s closer relationship to him, he felt compelled to let them in. The paternal side of him, the little piece that still pined for Nina, revelled in the act of taking care of someone, so he wasn’t exactly complaining, but he was confused on the  _ why _ they kept coming to him. He was a known terrorist, a fugitive from the law, a dangerous man who had killed too many to keep track of, but they sought him out like moths to a flame.

 

Most days it was just something simple, a quick chat between the three of them, most often about the baby or some other such neutral subject, but sometimes they sought him out for other things. They came to him with questions and asking for advice, which Erik happily gave, anything to distract him from his own depression. It was uncannily easy to slip into their lives, like he should have been a part of it in the first place.

 

He had to admit though, he still wasn’t used to Peter appearing out of nowhere.

 

“Hey Erik!” Peter called, having materialized right next to Erik’s shoulder, startling him, “Can you come with me a second?”

 

Erik forced his heart to slow down, “Sure, what do you—”

 

In less than a second, he had gone from being inside, in one of the hallways, heading towards the library (he was getting quite far in unboxing the books that kept arriving), to being outside, a few feet from a cluster of children. The now-familiar lurch in his stomach told him that Peter had gotten impatient.

 

“—need?” he finished, forcing down his lunch.

 

“There’s a cat or something in that tree,” Peter said, pointing to where the children were looking up into the branches of a tree, “Think you can get it?”

 

“Why can’t you?” Erik asked, walking over to inspect the tree.

 

“I messed up my shoulder in training today,” Peter admitted, “I tried to climb up, but it hurts too bad.”

 

Erik stepped up to the trunk of the tree, looking for the cat. He couldn’t see anything, but now that he was close enough, he could hear meowing, “Can’t you run up?”

 

“I could, if I wanted to liquify kitty’s insides,” Peter said, “Something that small is too fragile, bones are too soft. I’m more likely to squish the poor thing.”

 

“Don’t squish the kitty!” one of the children said, and a rousing chorus of agreement followed.

 

Erik sighed, “Alright, alright,” he said. He looked back up and tried to spot the little creature. He inhaled a little to call for someone, but stopped when he realized he was about to call for Nina.

 

Clenching his teeth, Erik tried not to notice his heart twist in his chest. The nightmares hadn’t stopped, or gotten better at all, and he spent most nights wandering through the halls, trying to shake off the horrors his mind cooked up. Mostly, it didn't work, but he could fool himself into thinking that he was okay.

 

Taking a deep breath, Erik hopped up and grabbed the lowest branch. It didn’t take him long to find the kitten from there. It was a ragged, snaggle toothed little ball of dirty fur and sharp little claws. Swearing (in German, so the children wouldn’t pick it up), he grabbed hold of it and carried it back down.

 

“Dude, you’re the best,” Peter said, taking the mewling little lint ball from Erik, “Thank’s Dad.”

 

“What?” Erik stalled. Had Peter just called him ‘dad’?

 

Peter flushed, obvious under his pale skin, “I mean, uh . . . that is to say—” he vibrated nervously, “That just slipped out.”

 

Erik stared at the boy, watching him grow more nervous as the moment extended into awkwardness, “It’s . . . fine,” he said, not knowing what else to say.

 

“I’m going to go ask the Professor if we can keep the cat!” Peter suddenly exclaimed, “Who want’s to come?” A chat of ‘I do! I do!’ rang out as Peter led the children back up to the house. The kitten, having migrated to Peter’s shoulder, glared at Erik judgingly.

 

Erik watched them go, still trying to wrap his head around the emotional rollercoaster he’d just been on. Did Peter think of hism as a father figure? From what he’d gleaned, Peter and Wanda had been raised by a single mother. It was possible, but wouldn’t Charles make the better candidate?

 

_ “So they told me you control metal. You know, my mom once knew a guy who could do that.” _

 

Wanda and Pietro  _ Maximoff _ .

 

_ “Hey, ever been to Czechoslovakia? I was born there you know, before Mom brought us to the US.” _

 

It couldn’t be.

 

Seized by a sudden icy feeling, Erik turned and decided to go walking around the grounds to clear his head. The notion wouldn’t leave him alone though, no matter how hard he tried to shake it. The very idea was preposterous; but it really wasn’t. They were around the right age, and everything else added up, he even recalled that twins ran in his mother’s family.

 

Erik rubbed his eyes, trying to rationalize. There was no way it was true, it was probably some kind of coincidence. Marya had been about to get married, so even if Peter and Wanda, by some coincidence, were her children, there was no guarantee that they were his children.

 

Feeling a little calmer now, Erik continued with his walk around the grounds. He still couldn’t get it out of his head though, and circled back around to the idea after a while. Would it really be so bad if Wanda and Peter were his children? They were good kids, and they seemed to like him, and he liked them.

 

But if they were his, then he’d missed their entire lives.

 

Erik was once again frozen; even if he was their father, he couldn’t claim it. He’d had no part in their lives until only recently, now that they were adults with their own lives, starting their own families.

 

Aside from that, even if he had been in their lives, what good would it have done, as consumed as he had been by his revenge against Shaw? He’d been in no position to be a father. The kind of life adjustment he’d taken when Nina had been born still made him dizzy sometimes.

 

Thinking of Nina brought another thought to the forefront; his family always died.

 

The revelation settled in his gut like a stone. He couldn’t have family, the universe wouldn’t  _ allow _ it. Maybe it was because of his checkered past of violence and murder, or perhaps someone out there had it out for him personally, but every family he’d ever had had been brutally killed. If he tried to have a family again, they would die, and Erik would finally  _ lose his mind _ .

 

Resolved, Erik let out a long sigh. Even if Peter and Wanda were his children,  _ which they most certainly weren’t _ , he would not be their father. He couldn’t, wouldn’t do that to them. He would keep a greater distance from now on. Erik wouldn’t risk their safety for his own selfish reasons.

 

So wrapped in his own mind, Erik almost didn’t notice movement out of the corner of his eye. Notice it he did, however, and he stopped. The light was fading fast as the sun went down, so he couldn’t see what it had been, but something had definitely moved in the bushes. Tensing, trying to sense for danger, Erik stepped forward. A dark shaped moved and Erik reached out to see if there was any metal he could grab.

 

_ It’s probably a cat _ , his mind supplied for him. It wasn’t an unreasonable explanation; he had rescued a kitten from a tree. Maybe it was the mother cat, looking for her baby. That was probably it. Certain that the shadow was nothing more than a feline, Erik turned around and walked back up the path towards the house.

 

* * *

 

The cold of winter was settling in, but Mystique still walked through the night bare, her blue skin hiding her like a shadow in the darkness. She had too much energy at night, and could never get to sleep until well into the night. So she often went for a jog after the sun sank beneath the distant hills.

 

Mystique felt lethargic today, so her job had turned into more of a stroll. She kept thinking back to what Hank had said to her, about telling Kurt who she really was to him.

 

It had broken her, to lose him nearly seventeen years ago, but finding him again hadn’t been the fairytale ending that Hollywood would make you believe. What was she supposed to tell him? How would she treat him, once he knew? Mystique didn't know how to be a mother, she’d missed her chance to be his.

 

The first step, she figured, would be to pull back on his training a little. The others were right, she was much too harsh on him. He clearly had talent, but no matter how Mystique tried, she couldn't make him ruthless. It was probably better that he was a kind person, the world didn’t need more people who liked to hurt others. 

 

Resolved, Mystique continued down the path, one she could have walked in her sleep. She would have thought she’d forgotten it, having been away so long, but she surprised herself sometimes by how easy it was to slip back into her old ways in this place. The house was different now, having been rebuilt from the foundations up, but there were still these odd things that Charles had insisted be kept in the new house. Little nooks and crannies, hiding spots she remembered as a child. It was sentimental nostalgia, something Mystique usually loathed, but here it was almost . . . content, for lack of a better word.

 

Above her, a cloud moved out of the way of the almost full moon, illuminating the grounds with a pale light. Out of the corner of her eye, Mystique saw a flash of movement. She nearly missed it, and might have dismissed its importance had her instincts not kicked in. After having lived so long with instinct as her only companion, Mystique had learned to trust them.

 

Shifting so her body was darker in colour and lighter in weight, Mystique stole across the yard, keeping her eyes trained on the shadow, even as the moon sank behind the clouds again. She had the sense that this was not a student who was wandering around after dark.

 

As she crept closer, using the bushes as cover, she began to hear a voice talking in hushed tones. She couldn’t quite make out the words, but the language was choppy and curt, professionally militaristic. Mystique’s hackles rose; were they under attack?

 

A sense of Deja Vu rolled over her, as she recalled the way Project Wideawake had picked off her friends one by one. Dread settled in her stomach as she finally got close enough to hear what they were saying.

 

“—ome kind of weak point in the perimeter?” the voice said. There was no response, so Mystique assumed they were talking into some kind of headset.

 

“Negative, all windows and doors are alarmed,” they said, inching closer to the house, “Do you think the asset could cover that many operatives at once?”

 

Mystique had a bad feeling about the way the goon said the word ‘asset’, but didn't react just yet, continuing to follow at close range. The school was definitely under attack, or at least being watched for the opportunity to attack. Having lived through so many attacks and raids, Mystique was not about to let it happen to the school.

 

The question now was whether or not to take out the goon and alert whoever they were speaking to that they had caught on, or let them go and plan for something later. There were merits to both plans, but the window of opportunity was slight for the first. Mystique would have to get it just right. She was a good fighter, but bulletproof she was not.

 

“No sign of the target on this side of the house,” the goon said, “Convening with team A shortly. ETA two minutes.”

 

Mystique cursed internally; the goon was not a lone spy, but part of a larger group. More difficult to subdue, but not impossible. Mystique was not the same little girl she had been the night Angel had been taken all those years ago.

 

Dispatching of the goon was almost laughably simple. The darkness provided her the cover she needed to leap onto their back and quickly choke them into unconsciousness. Mystique dragged the body into the cover of the bushes and took their communicator and shifted to their appearance (white male, red hair, brown eyes). She absorbed as much as she could of his mannerisms and walked off to find team A. Hopefully there was only the one other team, as it would be easier to subdue.

 

Mystique rounded the house and saw three figures coming towards her. Two more goons, and a smaller figure, their hands bound behind their back and a strange looking collar around their neck. They were wearing some kind of hospital shift and too-large boots, and their hair was shaved right down, but the most striking thing about them was their eyes. Haunted and tired, with dark bags under them. The colour was an electrifying blue-ish purple, but they were so dull that it hardly seemed to matter.

 

“Hey Joey, see anything juicy?” one of the goons asked in a way that made Mystique’s skin crawl.

 

“Nope,” she said, her voice coming out in the much deeper and more masculine voice of ‘Joey’.

 

“Pity,” the goon said, “Like, I know these kids are freaks, but some of them,  _ phew _ , can you say ‘jailbait’?”

 

“Don, you’re disgusting,” the other good snarled, sounding much older than both Don and Joey, “Let’s just go. We need to put this thing back in it’s cage.”

 

The nameless goon shoved a little at the little figure in the hospital shift. They teetered on their feet so much that Mystique took a step forward, acting on instinct. The dull eyes caught her’s and she froze.

 

Mystique literally froze, unable to move. The child’s (teenager? It was so hard to tell, they were so thin) eyes widened and they said, “Intruder.” The word was robotic, like a conditioned response.

 

Mystique cursed internally and tried to throw off whatever was holding her in place. She couldn’t move a muscle, no matter how hard she tried.

 

_ I’m sorry _ , drifted through her mind, not unlike when Charles spoke to her telepathically. She only had a minute to wonder after it before she completely blacked out.

 

Mystique awoke the next morning to a fluster of anxious voices. Her head throbbed and she was cold, but she couldn’t feel any other pain. The voices pierced through her like red hot needles, stabbing her brain with their concerned murmurs.

 

“Over here!” someone shouted, causing Mystique to wince. She felt oversensitive, the grass under her scraped her skin like tiny blades, the dim morning light blinded her as she squinted open her eyes, and the light smell of the fresh dewy morning burned her nostrils and throat.

 

“Raven!” someone panted; Charles, wheeling himself as fast as he could across the grounds, Hank hot on his heels, “What happened!?”

 

Good question.

 

Mystique finally mustered up the effort to sit up just as Hank and Charles reached her. Charles turned from her for a moment to reassure the children and send them scurrying off back into the house. Hank strode right up to her and helped her to her feet. His coarse fur chafed her as he took her vitals.

 

“What happened?” Charles repeated, eyes alight with concern. It was such a familiar expression from their childhoods that Mystique almost felt like Raven for a moment. The moment passed as she gathered her scattered thoughts.

 

“I don’t remember,” she said, lifting a hand to her aching head. It felt like her brains had been scrambled.

 

Charles furrowed his brow, making him look suddenly so much older, “You don’t remember anything? Why you were out here?”

 

“I went for a walk,” Mystique said, “I went for a walk to clear my head . . .” A slideshow of memories trundled through her mind, “I got tired, so I decided to take a nap?” Even she didn’t sound convinced. There was something wrong, but the memories felt right so they couldn’t be wrong. But they weren’t right, were they?

 

Charles and Hank exchanged a glance, making Mystique bristle, “I’m not making it up, that’s what I remember,” she growled.

 

“Of course, of course, no one is saying that you’re lying,” Charles tried to mollify her, but it only served to make her more angry.

 

“Did you drink anything last night?” Hank asked, “Or eat something that tasted off?”

 

Hank’s bone-headed comment distracted her from Charles. She turned to Hank, ignoring the way it made the world spin, “What, you think I’m drunk? Or had a reaction? How stupid do you think I am?”

 

Hank put his hands up, “I’m just asking because your pupils are huge,” he said, “Fully dilated. You look drugged.”

 

Mystique kind of felt drugged. Had she been drugged? She didn't remember taking anything. She’d eaten the same meal as everyone else last night and had water from the tap. She didn’t feel any kind of puncture mark anywhere on her body, but that could just mean that she healed overnight.

 

“What’s going on out here?” Erik came strolling down the path, “The children are all talking about finding Mystique asleep on the grounds and making a big fuss. What happened?”

 

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Charles said as Erik came to stand next to him, “Raven can’t remember anything.”

 

“I told you, I remember coming out for a walk, getting tired, and then laying down to sleep,” Mystique said, “I wasn’t drunk, and I don’t think I was drugged. That’s just what I remember.”

 

Charles sat back in his chair and thought for a moment, “I believe you when you say you remember it that way, but that doesn’t mean that’s what happened,” he said, “A telepath might have implanted memories in you.”

 

Erik’s eyes widened, “Yesterday, when the children rescued that kitten, I went for a walk afterwards and saw a shadow in the bushes,” he said, “I walked towards it at first, but then I was convinced that it was another cat.”

 

“So?” Hank asked, impatient so early in the morning. Mystique remembered him as a perpetual night owl.

 

“So I was  _ convinced _ it was a cat,” Erik emphasised, “Looking back on it now, there was no way it was a cat, and I could have seen that clearly even from where I was standing. And yet I was absolutely, one hundred percent sure it was a cat.”

 

“You’re certain it wasn’t a cat now?” Charles asked.

 

Erik gave him a withering look, “I’ve been a fugitive on the run for a decade, I know what to look for when I’m being stalked,” he said, “There was no way it was a cat.” He rubbed his forehead as though fighting down a migraine, “Even now though, something in me feels like it’s compelling me to believe it was a cat.”

 

Charles hummed and folded his hands over his lap, “Why don’t we go inside?” he suggested, “I think we need to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two Mystique sections, but I think it worked well for the chapter. We're getting into the plot, but there's still going to be a lot of character introspection along the way. Hopefully you like this chapter as much (or better) than the original.
> 
> Also, I think Kurt would really identify with characters like Frankenstein's Monster (who's name was Adam in the book btw) and Quasimodo. Sympathetic characters that are pushed to the fringes of society because they're 'monsters' and are either abandoned by their parent figure or abused by their parent figure. As well as having a shit tonne of religious overtones.


	11. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm super excited for the next few chapters. I'm really getting into the flow of writing this (plus my new computer is so nice to write on). Things are a little sporadic with school, but I try to make time for this when I can (probably more time than I should). Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

When Kurt came down for breakfast, it seemed the whole school was abuzz with restless chatter. He only caught snippets of what everyone was talking about until he reached the table his friends were at.   
  


“Kurt!” Jubilee called as he aproaced the table, “Did you hear about what happened?”

 

“Nein, I only woke up a few minutes ago,” he said. He’d been up all last night reading, “Did something happen?”

 

“Suzy and Alison found Mystique passed out outside this morning,” Peter said, mouth semi-full of eggs, “Just lying out on the grass. They freaked and called the Professor.”

 

“Well who wouldn’t?” Jean said, “If I found a teacher passed out anywhere I think I would go get help.”

 

“What do you think happened to her?” Ororo asked, sipping her coffee. She was one of the few students who actually drank coffee.

 

“Maybe she got drunk,” Jubilee chirped, “Went out to a party and got super plastered.”

 

“That doesn’t seem like her,” Scott said, “She always seemed so strict, I can’t imagine her as the party type.”

 

“Teachers have lives outside of school you know,” Peter said.

 

“I heard that, before she was ‘Mystique’, she was a real party girl,” Jubilee said.

 

Kurt couldn’t conceal his worry, “Was she okay?” he asked.

 

Jean shrugged, “She was taken to the Professor’s office with Dr. McCoy and Magneto shortly after.”

 

“All of them together?” Kurt asked. That didn’t sound good.

 

“Yeah, the whole school is filled with rumors right now,” Jubilee said, “I want to know all of them, but Jean won’t tell me.” She pouted at the redhead.

 

Jean rolled her eyes, “I’m not using my powers just so you can be the gossip queen of the school,” she said, tossing her hair over her shoulders and taking a sip of her juice.

 

Jubilee rolled her eyes as the others at the table laughed, “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for everything,” Ororo said.

 

“Sure, probably, “ Jubilee grinned, “But it’s fun to speculate anyway.”

 

Kurt smiled good naturedly at the banter, but he couldn’t help but think of Mystique, and if she might be ill. It would probably be fine, Dr. McCoy would look after her, but he would send up a prayer for her, just in case.

 

“What were Suzy and Alison doing up so early anyway?” Ororo asked, “They don’t have any chores or anything.”

 

“They were probably taking a walk together to see the sunrise,” Jean said, a little dreamily, “They’re girlfriends.”

 

“Whose girlfriends?” Scott asked obliviously, “Who’re they dating?”

 

The whole table resisted the urge to facepalm, “Each other, Scott,” Jean said, “They’re each other’s girlfriends.”

 

Scott blinked owlishly behind his glasses, “Oh.  _ Oh _ ,” he flushed bright red, “Ah, right. Okay. That’s— _ ahem _ —that’s nice. For them. Yeah.” To cover his embarrassment, he took a long swig of his juice, only to choke and send himself into a coughing fit.

 

“God Scott, it’s like you want us to make fun of you,” Peter said. The others giggled while Scott glared.

 

Kurt tried not to laugh, but it was really hard. Scott did set himself up for ridicule a lot, mostly without intending to, though he took it in good humor. Kurt finally tucked into his breakfast after a quick prayer, “Where is Wanda?” he asked.

 

“Sleeping in,” Peter said, “Had some nausea last night and didn’t sleep much. The cooks save food for her though, she’ll eat later.”

 

“Do you think we’ll have training today?” Ororo suddenly asked, looking a little excited by the idea, “If we don’t, I want to go into town. I want to buy clothes.”

 

“That sounds like a great idea!” Jubilee exclaimed, her loud voice carrying over the dining room, turning several heads. Most were used to Jubilee’s surprisingly booming voice and quickly turned away again, “We haven’t been into town since the house blew up.”

 

Scott shifted in his chair, “Maybe that’s not such a good idea,” he said, “We should ask permission first. Let someone know where we’re going.”

 

Kurt tilted his head. This did not sound like the same Scott that had encouraged their little ‘breakout’ last time. It was impossible to see his eyes, but there was a tell-tall crinkle in his brow that made him look concerned.

 

“Come on, where’s your sense of adventure?” Peter waggled his brows at him, teasing again.

 

Scott mumbled something and Kurt realized what was going on. The last time they had left the house, Scott’s older brother had died. Scott hadn’t been there to help his brother, even though there was nothing he could have done, and he felt responsible for what happened. Kurt felt a wave of sympathy for his friend and laid a hand on his arm.

 

“We can stay if you want,” Kurt said softly, “Dr. McCoy gave me some nice books to read, if you would like that.”

 

Scott looked confused for a second, before his face melted into understanding, then gratefulness, “Yeah, sounds good,” he said with a small, rare smile.

 

Jean, having caught on to the exchanged, piped in, “Staying in sounds nice actually. It’ll be great to relax,” she said, “What book are you reading Kurt?”

 

Kurt felt a surge of excitement; it was so nice to have friends. No one had ever asked him about what he was doing in his spare time before he came to the school, “ _ The Hunchback of Notre Dame _ ! Es ist sehr gut! It’s a little hard to read, but I can hardly put it down. Some of the book is not so good in its showing of Roma, but I like it anyway.”

 

Jean smiled, “I’ve never read it, but I’ve heard great things. It’s by Victor Hugo right? The same guy who wrote  _ Les Miserables _ .”

 

They talked about books throughout the rest of breakfast. Even the others joined in with observations (Peter had a lot to say about the way Roma were depicted in the novel), and it turned into quite the fun discourse. Kurt felt like he had a lot more to talk to Dr. McCoy later.

 

“Dr. McCoy gives you such cool books,” Jubilee said, “I wish the other teachers gave us cool books.”

 

“I can ask Dr. McCoy if he would lend you some books too, if you want,” Kurt suggested.

 

“That sounds so cool!” Jubilee exclaimed, bouncing in her seat, “We could start a kind of book club!”

 

“That does sound nice,” Jean agreed, “We should all get a little culture.”

 

“I would like to know some of the Western classics,” Ororo said.

 

Peter hummed, “You could even bring in some of the books you know. So we’re not just focussed on dead white guys.”

 

“This is so nerdy,” Scott complained, but didn’t offer any kind of resistance otherwise.

 

“We should talk to Dr. McCoy later about it,” Jean said, elbowing Scott playfully, “He could be like a kind of patron for us.”

 

Kurt felt a hot curl of jealousy in his stomach, then a wave of guilt for his sinful feelings. As much as he hated to admit it, he liked having Dr. McCoy’s attentions all to himself when they discussed books. Their classes were great, and he was learning a lot, but there was something more intimate about their literature talks. Kurt felt special, appreciated and even smart sometimes when they talked about the themes and forms of the books Dr. McCoy gave him. He felt awful, but he didn’t want the others encroaching on that.

 

For what was probably the millionth time, Kurt wished he could go to confession.  Hochwürdiger Feigenbaum, for all that he’d been a haughty, intimidating, and distant man, had always listened to Kurt and treated him with kindness, taking Kurt’s confessions in dark night hours, so no one would see him. But Hochwürdiger Feigenbaum was still in Germany, for all Kurt was aware, and Kurt hadn’t found a suitable replacement to take his woes to. He felt sick to his stomach, bottling up all of his sins and shameful thoughts. He was too shy to go to the Professor, who was so busy that Kurt would only feel more guilty for taking up his time. None of the other teachers seemed to have the time either, and he didn’t interact with them much anyway. Mystique was much too distant with him, and didn't seem to like him at all. That left Dr. McCoy, but Kurt was reluctant to admit his flaws and failings to the man he was coming to admire so much.

 

So Kurt kept his feelings to himself and smiled, “I will be sure to ask him,” he said, even as breakfast churned uncomfortably in his stomach.

 

* * *

 

Charles took all four of them down to the newly rebuilt Cerebro. If whoever was snooping around the school had a telepath that could shield against him, it would take him hours to find the ‘blind spot’, the gap where there was nothing where there should have been something. He didn’t have that time, but for now they would be safe from any telepathic interference inside Cerebro. Even he couldn’t penetrate Cerebro unless another telepath was using it and he was connected to them. If it was inactive, there was no way inside, it was a telepathic fortress.

 

“So we’re being stalked,” Hank said, “Who do you think it is?”

 

“Government, probably,” Erik said with a growl, “They’re probably targeting us after everything that happened in Cairo. Or after me again.”

 

Charles shook his head, “No, couldn’t be,” he said, “Moira has her fingers in a lot of pies and she would let us know if anyone was planning anything.”

 

Erik raised an eyebrow at Charles. He rolled his eyes, “Alright, yes, they are watching us, but not anything like this. They’re keeping a very polite distance.”

 

“Besides that, using a telepath to spy on us is both too clever and too stupid for the government,” Raven said, leaning against Cerebro’s control panel, “They know about Charles, they know he’s a telepath, so even if they did think of using a telepath, their first thought would be that it wouldn't work.”

 

“So what, a private institution, like Trask?” Hank suggested, “Someone not necessarily working for the government, but possibly connected?”

 

“Or not connected at all,” Charles said, causing Erik to roll his eyes this time, “We don’t know.”

 

“You cannot be naive, Charles,” Erik growled, “We can’t trust the government.”

 

Charles sighed, knowing that it would be useless to argue that point with Erik, “Regardless, we need to figure out exactly who it is.”

 

“If they have a telepath, Cerebro is out,” Hank said, “They’ll know that we’re looking.”

 

“Depends on how powerful the telepath, but yes,” Charles said, running a hand along Cerebro’s shiny new panel, “We’ll have to do this the old fashion way.”

 

“We should start by looking into Mystique’s and my minds,” Erik said, “If we have false memories, there should at least be evidence of it. Maybe something got left behind or buried.”

 

“I might be able to uncover something, yes,” Charles said, “Even if the memories are gone forever or removed entirely, there will still be evidence of something being amiss.”

 

Erik nodded and knelt down in front of Charles, and it made Charles a little warm inside, seeing how much Erik trusted him, even after all this time. He leaned forward and touched his fingers to Erik’s temples, delving into his mind.

 

The pain was sharp and startling, and sucked the breath from his chest. Erik was, as Charles had forever known him to be, a man in extreme pain. A new layer had formed over the familiar, old scars. The loss of a daughter felt so piercingly that it was a chore each morning to get out of bed.

 

_ I’m so sorry, old friend _ , Charles said in his mind, unable to help himself, but knowing it was useless.

 

_ Not now _ , Erik said to him, closing his eyes for a moment,  _ We have more important things to worry about. _

 

Charles nodded and pried deeper into Erik’s mind, filtering through memories. Erik helped by specifically recalling up the memory from yesterday.

 

_...So wrapped in his own mind, Erik almost didn’t notice movement out of the corner of his eye. Notice it he did, however, and he stopped. The light was fading fast as the sun went down, so he couldn’t see what it had been, but  _ **_something had definitely moved in the bushes._ ** _ Tensing, trying to sense for danger, Erik stepped forward.  _ **_A dark shaped moved and Erik reached out to see if there was any metal he could grab._ **

**_It’s probably a cat_ ** _ , his mind supplied for him. It wasn’t an unreasonable explanation; he had rescued a kitten from a tree. Maybe it was the mother cat, looking for her baby.  _ **_That was probably it._ ** _ Certain that the shadow was nothing more than a feline, Erik turned around and walked back up the path towards the house. _

 

Charles furrowed his brow; the memory, the conviction, felt authentic, but there was a wrongness to it. It was too sharp, too clear cut and well placed. Like a showroom for a house, everything in place, but with no life or character. Charles pressed a little deeper, but there wasn’t much to grasp. Erik hadn’t really seen what was in the bushes before  _ something _ had made up his mind. The telepath who had done this had done it well.

 

Charles pulled out from Erik’s mind, “Definitely tampered with, but I can’t find anything,” he said, “Sorry.”

 

Erik shook his head, “It’s fine,” he said. He stood and looked towards Raven, “Mystique?”

 

Raven got a slightly pinched look on her face, but sighed and walked over to Charles, “Don’t go snooping around,” she ordered.

 

Charles smiled, “I promise,” he said, “No funny business.”

 

Raven rolled her eyes, but Charles could see on her face, even after all these years, that she was secretly amused. Charles gave her a small smile in return and gently laid his fingers on her temples.

 

Untangling Raven’s memories was a little more difficult. It really did seem like she had simply gone for a walk last night, gotten tired, and fallen asleep outside, as absurd as that was. Eventually, Charles found a seam, an edge that just didn't fit right. He worried at it a little, but it was stuck fast. It didn’t want to move.

 

_ I need to go deeper Raven, you need to let me in deeper into your brain _ , Charles said, feeling the resistance from Raven herself.

 

A wave of annoyance flooded over him,  _ Don’t snoop _ , she warned.

 

_ I need to see Raven _ , Charles said,  _ I’m sorry, I need to be deeper in your mind _ .

 

The annoyance spiked, but it was followed by resignation. Raven slowly lowered her barriers (which were marvelously crafted) and let him settle deeper into her mind.

 

Anxiety made Charles’ heart race.  _ Kurt _ , it echoed,  _ my baby, my precious baby _ . The despair was almost as sharp as Erik’s, but more controlled, more sectioned off. She didn’t want to think about it, she hadn’t thought about it in so long. But Kurt was here now, alive and well and her baby, but she wasn’t his mother and it was  _ killing her _ , every day, little by little.

 

_ Oh Raven _ , Charles soothed,  _ I’m so sorry. It’ll be alright, we’ll make it alright. _

 

**_Stop_ ** _ , _ Raven ordered,  _ Stop that or get out. _

 

The reprimand was so strong that it actually stung Charles a little, jolting him. He decided not to be upset about it, he and Raven were still rebuilding their relationship, and it would take time. He couldn’t expect her to just go back to being his sister right away, not after everything that happened. Even he wasn’t that naive anymore.

 

Now that he was deeper in Raven’s mind, he could see the false memories more clearly. Charles delicately tried to get under them, to see the real memories underneath, but it was proving difficult. He could probably do it if he forced himself a little harder, but he didn’t want to hurt her. After a few minutes, he managed to peel something back.

 

_ Mystique rounded the house and saw three figures coming towards her. Two more goons, and a smaller figure, their hands bound behind their back and a strange looking collar around their neck. They were wearing some kind of hospital shift and too-large boots, and their hair was shaved right down, but the most striking thing about them was their eyes. Haunted and tired, with dark bags under them. The colour was an electrifying blue-ish purple, but they were so dull that it hardly seemed to matter. _

 

_ A mutant _ , Raven thought,  _ Our little telepath friend. _

 

_ Poor little thing _ , Charles thought,  _ So young. _

 

_ We can’t focus on that now _ . Raven’s mind was practical and orderly,  _ Look at the others. What can we figure out from them? _

 

The goons were dressed entirely in black, with nothing to signify any affiliation to any agency whatsoever.  _ So not government _ , Charles thought, but it still left the question of who they were. What was most disturbing was the collar around the telepath’s neck. He’d heard rumors that devices were being made to control mutant powers, but he hadn’t seen any evidence of them just yet.

 

Charle pressed around the edges of the memory, trying to uncover the rest, something that might help them a little more. He came upon something ‘odd’; not quite a false memory, but something hidden, like the message he’d given Jean in Apocalypse’s message to the world. He wasn’t sure if it was a message, a trap of some kind, or some kind of trigger, but he couldn’t leave it alone.

 

_ There’s something else there _ , Charles said, poking at the memory,  _ Something even deeper. _

 

_ Go for it _ , Raven thought,  _ Be careful, it might be some kind of trap. _

 

Charles took a deep breath and pressed into the ‘spot’, trying to figure it out. It held for a second, then burst like an egg yolk.

 

_ Help me help me help me help  _ **_Ashcroft_ ** _ me help me help me  _ **_We’re here_ ** _ help me help me help  _ **_They’re coming_ ** _ me help  _ **_Save us! Save us! SAVE US!_ **

 

Charles recoiled, breaking the connection, but the message still rang in his mind like an echo. Raven put a hand to her head, like she had a headache, and Charles guessed she felt something as well.

 

“Definitely a powerful telepath,” Charles said, wincing, “She—he? Whatever, they’re being held captive by whoever these people are.”

 

“Any clues to who they might be?” Hank asked, coming closer to Charles to see if he was alright.

 

The headache was already fading, “Well, their uniforms were completely unmarked, so it’s unlikely that they’re any kind of government,” he said, ignoring Erik’s grumbling, “But that message locked in Raven’s mind had the word ‘Ashcroft’. Does that mean anything to anyone.”

 

Everyone shook their heads, “I’ve never heard of a group by that name,” Raven said, “I can do some digging, but if I don't know who they are, they might be a new organization.”

 

“I’ve been out of the game too long, I wouldn't even know where to start,” Erik admitted.

 

Charles sighed, “I’ll ask Moira if she knows anything. Until we have more information, we have to be careful. Mandatory curfews of all staff and students. No one is to go leave the premises without permission or escort. We’ll set up a nightwatch system to keep an eye out.”

 

“I volunteer,” Erik said, “I know what to look for now, I’ll be ready.”

 

“I’ll work on creating a security system for the grounds,” Hank said.

 

“We should tell the X-Men,” Raven said, “This is exactly what we’re training them for.”

 

Charles hesitated, “Are we sure they’re ready?” he questioned. They were only children.

 

Raven shifted her weight, thinking, “Not entirely,” she said, “But I highly doubt they will be until they get some experience under their belts. This is a good opportunity for them to learn.”

 

“It’s dangerous,” Hank warned.

 

“It’s on our turf and they’ll have both myself and Magneto to back them up. This is the least dangerous situation they could possibly get,” Raven pointed out.

 

Charles sighed, but considered his options, of which he was rather limited, “Alright,” he said, “We let them in on it, but only them. The other students will have certain details, but we don’t want to cause a panic and have someone do something reckless or stupid.”

 

There was a murmur of agreement, “I’ll stay down here for a few minutes and do a sweep of the grounds. Hank? Would you mind?”

 

Hank nodded and helped Charles set up Cerebro. Raven and Erik moved towards the door, “We’ll go search the grounds on our own, just in case their telepath can shield them from you even with Cerebro.”

 

“Alright,” Charles said, placing the now more streamlined helmet on his head, “We’ll make an announcement when I come back up.”

 

Mission plan in place, the last remaining first X-Men split, Erik and Raven, and Charles and Hank. Charles might have laughed at the parallel, splitting up to protect the mutant race, each in their own way, but he was much too busy at the moment. He needed to keep his students safe.

 

* * *

 

Charles wasn’t able to find anyone on the grounds who shouldn’t have been there, and neither were Erik and Mystique. Though they were frustrated, they had bigger fish to fry. They made a general announcement that a suspicious person had been spotted around the school, and that a 9 o’clock curfew would be in place until the matter was solved, as well as supervision when leaving the grounds. No one was allowed outside after dark, and the windows were shuttered and curtained.

 

The students, despite reassurances, were anxious, know that there was more to the story that they weren’t getting, but any questions were met with platitudes and diversions. Their inquiries unmet, rumors ran rampant, heightening the sense of unease throughout the school. Classes were quiet, but unfocused. Very little work got done, and even the teachers stopped trying after a day to two. A pervasive tangle of dread had settled over the whole school, and few even thought of rebelling against the new regime of restrictions.

 

Only the X-Men were let in on the real situation; the school was under watch by some kind of shadow organization, and they were not afraid to use mutants as weapons.

 

Cyclops, Phoenix, Nightcrawler, Storm, and Quicksilver were all excused from classes (though Peter didn’t attend class). Though it was still the summer, classes went on in a smaller capacity (mostly to stave off boredom). The students all wondered about the sudden dismissal of the X-Men from classes, and asked them, but they had been sworn to secrecy, though they didn’t exactly agree with it, for the protection of the students.

 

“It bites,” Ororo said, “We’re not even allowed to tell Jubilee. We can trust her, she’s our friend.”

 

“It’s not about that,” Scott said, ever the pragmatist, “If we tell the rest of the school they’ll panic and someone will get hurt. They might even try to leave the school, and be even more unprotected.”

 

Ororo grumbled, but Jean laid a comforting hand on her arm, “It’s not the best solution, but it’s the best we have for right now,” she said, “We have to do what we were trained for to protect them.”

 

“It still kinda bites,” Peter said, “I can’t even tell Wanda. She’s my twin, and she’s going to figure it out eventually, even if I don’t tell her. We’re  _ twins _ ,” he emphasised.

 

Kurt’s tail twisted around his ankles nervously, “Do you think they’ll try to take us?” he asked in a small voice. When he’d heard about the mutant they had taken and made into a weapon, he’d prayed that they wouldn’t use boxes. Anything but boxes with electric wires.

 

Jean’s face melted into sympathy, “Oh Kurt,” she breathed, wrapping him up in her arms. He was taller than her, but still so much skinnier, “No one is going to let that happen,” she promised, “We’ll make sure no one is taken.”

 

Kurt leaned into her, reassured by her physical presence. Growing up, he’d often been denied physical affection, or otherwise it had been doled out in restricted dosages when he was ‘good’. The X-Men, especially Jubilee and Ororo, were quite willing to hug him and pet his hair, while Scott and Peter were constantly jostling him like they did each other (though Kurt would hesitate to call it ‘affection’). Jean was more reserved than the others, but when she did get close, it was the most calming, reassuring hug he’d ever had. She always knew just how long to hug someone and just how tight, and Kurt couldn’t help but feel jealous of Scott, who was becoming romantically entangled with her (though Kurt didn’t think he thought of Jean that way).

 

They pulled out of the hug at the same time, Jean smiling up at Kurt, “We’ll keep everyone safe,” she said, “And that includes each other.”

 

Kurt smiled, “Yes, we will,” he said, trying to sound confident. He wasn’t, but the illusion was nice.

 

“What are you all standing around for?” Mystiques voice made them jump. She strode down the hallway where they were loitering around the entrances to the changerooms, “Go get changed. We have to canvas the whole grounds before it gets dark. Move!”

 

The X-men scurried off, quickly changing into their specialized suits, each tailor made to suit their needs. They lined up in the hallway, waiting for instructions. Mystique had trained them well.

 

“There will be three teams. We’ll each be given an area to work in, and we’ll report back anything. If you encounter something in your area, you are to  _ immediately _ contact the other two teams. Remember that false alarms are better than potentially getting yourselves killed or captured,” Mystique instructed, “Quicksilver and Magneto are team one. Phoenix and myself are team two, and Cyclops, Storm, and Nightcrawler are team three.”

 

Erik glanced at Mystique from the corner of his eye, wondering why she’d chosen to put Peter with him. Truthfully, he was a little relieved that he wouldn’t have to constantly worry that the boy was going to be killed, he would be able to keep a watch over him. It was violating his rule to keep away from him and Wanda, but he couldn’t help himself from worrying, wondering.

 

Mystique assigned the areas they would be canvassing, “Cyclops, I want you to act as team leader,” she said.

 

Scott jolted, “Why me?” he asked, looking, for a moment, like the teenager he was.

 

“I know the potential to be a leader when I see it,” Mystique said, “So I’m going to trust this to you. Do you trust my judgement?”

 

_ Do you trust  _ **_me_ ** _? _ Was what she was really asking. Scott hesitated a little, but drew himself up, making himself look just a bit older. Just a bit, Mystique thought, like his brother, “Yes ma’am!” he said.

 

“Good,” Mystique said, smiling, “X-Men, move out!”

 

They marched towards the exit, the ‘back door’ as it were, so they wouldn't have to walk through the school and add to the questions. They had two hours before sunset, and they had a lot of ground to cover. The X-Men’s first official mission was underway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I'm getting better at writing Kurt. He's my favourite character of all the X-Men (and Marvel, for that matter), but I've never gotten the chance to write him in a big way before now. I can slip into his head a lot better than I used to, and it's helping writing flow a lot more.


	12. Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a bunch of shit that needs to get done for school, so don't expect and update for a while. Not that I have a set update schedule anyway. Still, thought I'd warn you.

Erik was acting weird, in Peter’s opinion.

 

Not that the guy never acted weird; he was very skittish, though you wouldn’t notice it right away. It probably had something to do with the life he’d led, what with all the death and terrorism and being hunted and having his family die, so there was a good reason for him to be suspicious and tense. It probably didn’t help that they actually  _ were _ being hunted in their own house by an unknown group with mysterious but probably nefarious intentions. Probably not a good way to assuage paranoia about people coming and hunting you down to kill you and those you loved.

 

But he was acting  _ weirder _ .

 

Peter had started noticing it just after mistakenly calling Erik ‘Dad’ after he’d rescued the kitten (which had been adopted by the school and named Princess Ice Cream by popular vote). Since the tension in the school had started around the same time, he’d guessed that it was that at first, but no, there was something  _ specific _ about his weirdness around Peter. Wanda had noticed it as well, that he was weird towards both of them.

 

It was bizarre, the way he was weird with them, like he both wanted to know more about them and keep as far away from them as possible at the same time. He fretted over Wanda, but dodged her offers to spend time with him. He sat in on training sessions, watching Peter and offering suggestions to Mystique, but would barely say anything to Peter.

 

“We should move on to the next grid point,” Erik said, studying the map Mystique had handed to them before they’d set out.

 

“You know, I could cover all of the grounds in like, minutes, if you wanted,” Peter said, hopping over a log. They were deep in the brush of the grounds. Most of it was untamed forest.

 

“We want to be through, not quick,” Erik said, stalking off through the trees. In a plaid shirt, he looked a little like a mountain man, “I don't want you to be on your own either.”

 

Peter scoffed, “I move too fast for anyone to catch me,” he boasted.

 

“‘Anyone’ like Apocalypse?” Erik pointed out, “They have a telepath that can alter memories, and we have no way of gauging what else they might be able to do. Stay with me,” he paused for the briefest moment, and if Peter weren’t so attuned to the flow of time, he might have missed it, “So I can protect you.”

 

_ He knows _ , Peter realized with a start,  _ He knows that I’m his son. _

 

“I can take care of myself,” Peter protested, despite his pounding heart, “I’m twenty six, not a kid.”

 

Erik’s steps faltered just a fraction, “I know,” he said, and  _ shit _ did he sound forlorn. Peter was suddenly reminded of the fact that, while he was a terrorist and a bit nuts about mutant supremacy, Erik  _ was _ a family man, and had just lost a daughter. He’d never thought about what Erik would think about having missed his and Wanda’s entire childhood. It couldn't have been a nice feeling.

 

They searched the next grid point in complete silence, finding nothing of interest, both of them wrapped up in their own heads. Peter wanted to talk about it, about how he knew that Erik knew that he was Erik’s son, but the words wouldn’t come. He couldn’t seem to make the words move from his head to his mouth, even though he’d been obsessing over what he wanted to tell Erik. It normally took effort to shut him up, but now he couldn’t say a damn thing.

 

“Next grid,” Erik said, breaking the tense silence like a crack of thunder.

 

Peter felt the tension inside him break, like a balloon popping when it was too full, “Hey Erik?” he called, throat dry.

 

“When we’re on mission, we have to use the code names, Quicksilver, that’s what they’re there for,” Erik said, not turning to look at Peter.

 

Peter rolled his eyes, “Sure thing, Magneto,” he said sarcastically, “Can we stop for a second and talk?”

 

“We need to keep moving, we’re almost out of light,” Erik said, still not stopping.

 

Peter bristled at being brushed off, “ _ Dad _ , can we please talk?”

 

Erik stopped. Another tension balloon popped, leaving another balloon to slowly inflate in it’s place. Peter suddenly wished that he hadn’t said anything, that he’d left it alone until a better time, that he’d been more patient. Wanda was going to punch him for this.

 

“Peter,” Erik choked, sounding short of breath, “Later,  _ please _ .”

 

It was so close to begging that Peter couldn’t do anything but agree, “Okay,” he said quietly, “Later?” It came out like a hopeful question.

 

“Later,” Erik said, a promise. There was no telling how soon  _ later _ would be, but it was something.

 

“Okay,” Peter repeated, “Let’s keep going.”

 

They walked on, side by side, but not looking at each other, in complete silence. The sun sank behind the trees and the sky darkened, and finally they had to go inside. Peter spared a glance at Erik, but the man was already walking away, head high, but shoulders tense. Peter felt hot guilt curl in his stomach like spoiled meat. He quickly changed out of his uniform and ignored the other X-Men when they called to him. He didn’t want to talk to them, he didn't want to talk to anyone right now.

 

He could have left the school grounds, gone for a run, but the thought of leaving his sister alone in the house with those weirdos spying on them right now stilled his itchy feet. Instead he ran around the entire house five times, checking every nook and cranny he could find, not really looking for anything, but familiarizing himself with the house.  _ Plus _ , he thought to himself,  _ It could be classified as looking for listening devices or cameras and shit _ .

 

When Peter had exhausted that paperthin avenue of distraction, he did the first bad idea that popped into his head; call his mother. He knew she and Wanda were still not talking to each other, and that they had a whole slew of very justified problems, but he still found a bit of comfort in talking to her. She was his mother, even though she was an alcoholic with a cynical streak a mile wide.

 

Peter went to the phone and dialed, wondering if his mother would even be awake at this hour. It wasn’t late yet, but Marya could often drink herself to sleep.

 

The phone connected, “Hello? Marya called, a little slurred, “Who’s this?”

 

“Hey mom,” Peter said, comforted by her voice. Not so much by relief, but by familiarity.

 

“Peter,” Marya said, “Did something happen?”

 

Peter rolled his eyes, “You always think something has happened Mom. Nothing has happened.” It wasn’t technically true, but he didn’t want to tell his paranoid mother that he was being watched by possible government agents. It wouldn’t go over well.

 

“So why did you call?” Marya pointed out, still sharp after all the years of booze, “Tell me what’s going on.”

 

Peter sighed, “Erik knows,” he said, ripping off the bandaid.

 

Marya went quiet, “I see,” she said after a long pause, “Is he going to come here?”

 

Peter shrugged, even though she couldn't see it, “Probably not. At least not right away. We haven’t talked about it yet,” he said, “How did you know him again?”

 

Now it was Marya’s turn to sigh exasperatedly, “You already know the story. We met at the camp. He saved my life, and years later we met each other again.”

 

“It couldn’t have been the other guy, right?” Peter asked, “Django?”

 

“No, not in the slightest,” Marya said, “You father is Erik Lehnsherr, I’m completely positive. I’ve never lied to you about that.”

 

“No, you haven’t,” Peter huffed, “At least one of you is sure about the father.”

 

“What was that?” Marya asked. She still hadn’t talked to Wanda since his sister had called her.

 

“Nothing,” Peter said, cursing in his head. He did not want to have this argument.

 

“Peter,” Marya scolded. She was desperate for any news about Wanda, but she would never admit that to anyone.

 

“No _ thing _ ,” Peter emphasised, “Look, I have to go. I’ll call you some other time, okay?”

 

Marya sucked in a breath, obviously gearing up to say something, but Peter cut her off, “Bye Mom.” He hung up before she could make a response.

 

The relief at talking to his mother quickly drained from him, leaving him feeling cold and and slightly unmoored. He didn’t know why he’d called his mother.

 

The 9 o’clock curfew was mostly for students, but it was implied that he (and Wanda) heed it as well. Faced with nothing else to do, Peter went to see Wanda.

 

He and Wanda, unlike the regular students, had their own rooms, being older like they were. The Professor had considered putting him with another student, like Kurt for example, but hadn’t found anyone to take the other side of the room. When Wanda had arrived, they’d stayed together for a while, but Wanda had been given her own little suite after she’d revealed that she was pregnant (in anticipation of her needing space to raise a baby and all). Peter’s room was close by, so they could visit each other with relative ease.

 

Peter entered her room without knocking, like he usually did. He always knocked for other people, even his mom and his little sister (Ellie, their mom’s kid with another guy), but not Wanda. There was something unspoken about the two of them, a blurring of boundaries. They were twins, things were different for them.

 

Wanda was sitting on her bed with her feet propped up, reading. She glanced up at Peter’s arrival in her rooms. Without the need for words, she scooted over and set her book down. Peter crawled onto the bed with her and laid his head against her shoulder. Her brown curls fell over his head, like a curtain, making it look like he had brown hair like her.

 

Peter was suddenly reminded of the one time he’d dyed his hair. He’d been fourteen, starting (another) new school, and he’s decided he didn’t want to be the weird kid with the grey hair anymore. So he’d dyed it brown, to match Wanda’s hair. It had fried his hair, and he’d ended up with a rat’s nest of dirt-brown hair, with grey eyebrows to make it look even sillier. He’d simply shaved his head a few weeks later and gotten really into hats for a while.

 

“How was patrolling?” Wanda asked softly, knowing that there was something that was bothering Peter.

 

Peter sighed, “I think Erik figured it out.”

 

Wanda hummed, picking her book back up, “Took him long enough.”

 

“You’re not surprised?” Peter asked.

 

Wanda shrugged the shoulder Peter wasn't resting on, “He’s a smart man, he could have put it together by now. The only reason he hadn’t probably was because he’s been distracted.”

 

“I guess,” Peter said, sinking deeper into the bed. Maybe if he tried hard enough he could sink right through the bed, through the floor, and into the earth, “So,” he said, “Do we talk to him?”

  
  


“Tomorrow,” Wanda said, in a breath, “Tomorrow we talk to him.”

 

“What if he doesn’t want to talk?” Peter asked.

 

Wanda furrowed her brows, “Then we try again the day after. If after a week he still won’t talk to us . . .” she absently brought a hand up to rub her steadily swelling stomach, “We’ve gotten along fine so far without him.”

 

Peter couldn’t help but reach out with a hand and run the back of his hand over the curve. There was still no movement just yet, but it was still early enough for that not to be a concern. He thought of the little niece or nephew that was swimming around in his twin’s guts, leeching off of her body. He thought of how, twenty-six years ago, they two did the same to their mother, stealing her nutrients and making her body their incubator. Erik had put them there, and then had nothing to do with them since. What would he have done, if he had known about them? Would he have stayed? Would he have been a good father? Peter closed his eyes.

 

“Get some sleep, Pietro,” Wanda said, almost a whisper, “You’ve been so busy, looking after everyone in the house. You deserve to rest.”

 

“‘Kay,” Peter agreed, and he was out like a light, curled up close to his sister.

 

* * *

 

Charles stared at the phone, willing it to ring so he wouldn’t have to make the call himself. He’d put it off too long, and he really needed the information. With a sigh, Charles picked up the phone and started dialing Moira’s number.

 

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to speak to her, or that he didn't want to bring this up with her, but things between him and Moira were on unsteady ground, and he wasn’t sure what to do about it. They were, in a word, awkward with each other, with his own guilt over taking her memories and her annoyance that he’d taken her memories. To add to the mess were Moira’s responsibilities to her job and her son, and Charles’ responsibilities to the school and his students. It was not exactly the best ground to build a romantic relationship on.

 

“Hello? McTaggart residence.” Moira’s voice startled Charles out of his own head. He hadn’t heard her pick up the phone.

 

“Ah, yes, Moira?” Smooth Charles, very smooth, “It’s Charles.” Damn it.

 

“Oh Charles!” Moira sounded delighted, which lightened Charles’ mood a little, “How have you been?”

 

The stress came back, “I’ve been fine,” he said, “Personally anyway.”

 

“Personally?” Moira questioned, “I don’t think I like the sound of that.”

 

Charles let out a log sigh and leaned back in his chair, “Sadly, this isn’t a personal call.”

 

“But you called me at home?” Moira questioned. She’d give him her home phone and her work phone, with the assumption that he would call her at home for anything personal. She was sharp, however, and Charles sensed that she could sense something wrong.

 

“Yes well, I don’t think I can trust that your work phone hasn’t been tapped,” Charles said. He didn’t trust that her home phone hadn’t been tapped, though there was less of a chance that it was. He needed to take the risk, however.

 

“I see,” Moira said, “What do you need?”

 

And there was good old Moira. Charles smiled, relief washing over him, “Have you ever heard of anything called ‘Ashcroft’?”

 

“Ashcroft? No, not at all,” Moira said, “Why?”

 

“It’s better that you don’t know all the details,” Charles said, thinking of the telepath, “But have you heard of any monitoring that the government might be doing on us?”

 

“No. If we were doing something like that, I would know about it,” she said, with complete conviction.

 

“I believe you,” Charles said. Moira was good at her job, and if there was any sort of government monitoring of the school, it would go through Moira one way or another, “Can you do me a favor?”

 

“Sure,” Moira said, “Anything within my power.”

 

“Can you be on the lookout for anything called Ashcroft, or anything suspicious? You don’t have to do anything that will put your job at risk, but can you let me know if you find anything?” Charles asked.

 

“Of course,” Moira said, with a tone that suggested the end of that statement was ‘what kind of a question is that?’

 

Charles smiled, “Thank you Moira, it really means a lot to us. The school thanks you.”

 

“You’re very welcome,” Moira said, “So, I’m guessing this means we’re going to have to postpone again?”

 

Charles wracked his brain, but his response was a fraction too late and Moira sighed, “You forgot that we planned a dinner next Friday, didn't you?”

 

“I didn’t forget,” Charles protested, “I just misplaced the information after everything that’s happened.”

 

“Right,” Moira said, but there was laughter in her voice, rather than condemnation, “I understand Charles, it’s alright.”

 

Charles sighed, “Thank you,” he said, “I know this has been hard, but we both have our responsibilities.”

 

“Yes,” Moira said, and now she sounded serious and a little sad, “Charles I . . . I think we should take a break.”

 

If he were younger, more naive, Charles might have been surprised or saddened by that. As it was, he only felt resigned. He didn’t say anything, knowing that Moira had more to say.

 

“It’s not that I think it wouldn't work between us,” Moira said, “It’s just that we’re both so busy right now. It’s not a great time for dating. Plus, I have Kevin to think about.”

 

“I completely understand,” Charles said, “Honestly, I feel rather foolish letting it go on so long.”

 

Moira laughed, “Then I must be just a foolish,” she said. She sobered quickly, “It’s not because I don’t think this will work, it’s just . . .” she trailed off.

 

“We may have missed our chance?” Charles suggested.

 

“Maybe,” she said, “Maybe if we were younger, or if we didn’t do what we do, it could be different.”

 

“But this is the way things are,” Charles said, with a sad smile, “It’s alright Moira. I don’t think either of us are to blame for this.”

 

Moira sighed, “I don't think so either,” she said, “Maybe when things settle down a bit, we could try again?”

 

“Maybe,” Charles said, but he didn't sound convincing, even to his own ears, “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

 

“Yeah,” Moira said with a long sigh, “I’ll keep an eye out for Ashcroft, or any sort of movement towards you and yours. If something comes up, I’ll let you know right away.”

 

“Thank you Moira, that means a lot to us,” Charles said, “I’ll call you,” he promised.

 

“I look forward to it,” Moira said, a smile in her voice. They said their goodbyes and Charles hung up. He groaned and put his head down on his desk.

 

“Bad time?” Hank asked from the doorway.

 

Charles forced himself to sit up (although it wasn’t as if Hank hadn’t seen him in worse states), “I just got off the phone with Moira. She says she’s never heard of Ashcroft, or knows anything about any kind of surveillance on us. She’s going to keep a lookout for us though.”

 

“That’s nice of her,” Hank said, “And?”

 

Charles sighed, “We called off trying to rebuild our relationship. For now.”

 

Hank looked at him in sympathy, “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

 

Charles snorted, “As if you didn't see it coming a mile away.”

 

Hank gave an apologetic smile and a shrug, “Sorry Charles,” he said.

 

Charles sighed, “There’s nothing for it now,” he said, then switched gears, “How goes the extra security?”

 

“Well, so far,” Hank said, “I had to order some parts, so for now I just have to wait while they get here,” he said, “But other than that, there are some motion sensors that I set up, so at the very least we’ll know whether or not someone is crossing into the grounds.”

 

“Excellent,” Charles said. There was something else he’d needed to talk to Hank about . . . “Oh! Before I forget, how have Kurt’s lessons been going?”

 

“Very well,” Hank said, standing a little straighter, “I’ve been introducing him to some classic literature, which he’s responding well to. He’s mostly caught up with the rudimentary history, though he’s not doing so well in math. I’m going to try a different approach with him and see if that helps him any better. He’s doing alright in the sciences, but he doesn’t seem to have much interest in them. I’m going to see if I can’t find a practical application for him to work with, since he seems to understand things better that way.”

 

Charles didn’t need to peek at Hank’s mind to see that how proud he was of Kurt, “I’m pleased to hear it. Hopefully he’ll be all caught up soon and you won’t need to tutor him anymore.” A low blow maybe, but Charles always had to push boundaries.

 

Hank visibly deflated, “Right,” he said. Charles swelled with delight; his nephew was in good hands with Hank, and Hank finally had someone he could take care of.

 

Charles was not naive anymore, and he realized the nature of Hank and Raven’s relationship, or lack thereof. After all this time, Hank still had feelings for Raven, and he resented her for leaving him alone. Charles was glad that his instincts about Hank and Kurt had proven right, and Hank was becoming a surrogate father figure to Kurt. Charles couldn't be happier about that, he’d always suspected that Hank would make a wonderful parent (as much as the man had resisted teaching classes).

 

“And before I forget,” Charles said, “Kurt needs to go to his dentist appointment tomorrow.”

 

“You want me to take him?” Hank asked, almost offering.

 

“That would be perfect, thank you,” Charles said, smiling.

 

Hank nodded, “Just give me the details,” he said.

 

Charles quickly jotted them down and handed them to Hank, who studied them carefully. He bid Charles a good night and left his office, probably to work in his lab some more before exhaustion finally forced him to go to sleep. Charles sighed and started tidying his office, ready to get some sleep himself.

 

As he was making his way through the halls, a familiar, dark storm of a mind caught his attention, “Erik?” he called softly, not wanting to wake anyone if they were asleep.

 

At first, there was nothing to indicate he’d been heard. After a few seconds, a door opened, Erik’s door, because he was staying in ‘his’ old room, from when he’d first come to the mansion twenty years ago, and his old room was close to Charles’ room. They’d set it up that way so they were able to meet up in the middle of the night for a tipsy (usually) roll in bed together without disturbing anyone else.

 

Erik stepped out of the room, looking more harried than usual. Charles was about to ask him what was wrong when the other man blurted, “Peter and Wanda are my children.”

 

Charles blinked, unsure how to react to that. There was no doubt in Erik’s mind, and now that he thought about it, Peter and Wanda had been antsy about something to do with Erik since they came to the school. Erik simply stood aside in the doorway, allowing Charles to wheel his way in.

 

“You’re certain.” It wasn't a question.

 

“Yes,” Erik answered, “I mean, it all adds up.”

 

“Tell me,” Charles requested, knowing that Erik would refuse if he didn't want to tell Charles.

 

Erik wasted no time in telling Charles the entire story; how he and Marya came to know each other at the camp, travelling with her, finding her again in Czechoslovakia years later, twenty six years ago, and how Peter had all but confirmed it. Charles listened raptly, suspecting he was only able to follow along with Erik’s half-mad ramblings in at least three languages because he knew the man well and he was the world’s most powerful telepath.

 

“It’s certainly very likely,” Charles said once Erik had finished, “Have you spoken to Peter or Wanda about it?”

 

Erik shook his head, still pacing about, “No, not yet,” he said, “ I needed to get my head on straight first.”

 

Charles raised an eyebrow at the frantic man pacing around the room like an anxious bear in a cage, who could barely stick to one language, “You’re doing a marvelous job of that, old friend.”

 

Erik glared, “I’m not sure you understand,” he hissed, “They’re my  _ children _ , and I’ve missed their entire  _ lives _ ,” he said, the swirl of emotions in his mind reaching a fever pitch, “All the family I’ve ever had has  _ died _ .”

 

Charles felt a surge of empathy and pain well up in him, “Erik,” he called softly, “We won’t let that happen again,” he promised, holding out his hand for the other man to take.

 

Erik hesitated a moment before taking the offered hand. With surprising strength, Charles pulled Erik close, bringing him to his knees so Charles could wrap him in a tight embrace, “It’s different this time,” Charles said, “No one will be able to get to them here. I promise you I will do everything in my power to protect your family, Erik.”

 

Erik shivered, wondering when was the last time he’d felt so secure in another’s arms. Even Magda hadn’t been able to quell his fraught insides so easily. But here was Charles, bringing him to his knees without a second thought and promising to move heaven and earth to protect what little Erik had left. Erik let out a long, gusty sigh, trembling with the force of it. He wrapped his arms around Charles’ shoulders and squeezed back just as tightly.

 

“Danke, Charles,” he whispered, hoping that his native language would convey how deeply the sentiment went.

 

“You’re entirely welcome,” Charles said, smiling, “We’ll keep them safe Erik, together.”

 

“Together,” Erik repeated quietly.

 

They stayed that way, locked in a tight embrace, for several minutes, trying to find comfort in a discomforting situation. Eventually, Erik began to relax, the tension draining from his shoulder and body. He felt lightweight, almost drunk, with the release of the swirling anxieties that plagued him so doggedly. He might have suspected telepathic tampering on Charles’ part, but he was so well attuned to Charles by now that he would have felt it.

 

Slowly, sluggishly, Erik pulled away. Charles let him go, unresisting, but not quite willing to let go just yet. Erik peered searchingly into his eyes, grey green into stark blue. Clumsily, giving Charles plenty of time to turn away or push him back, Erik leaned in and kissed Charles’ pink mouth. Charles sighed and tilted his head, immediately giving in to the kiss, feeling the rush of excitement course through his body. How long had it been, since he’d had occasion to do this? Too long, his mind supplied, and he moved with Erik as they kissed, the movements half-remembered and half-instinctual, like they had just been doing this yesterday.

 

Erik pulled away first, keeping his eyes closed. Silence floated over them like a gossamer sheet, and Erik pulled back further, brows furrowing as he opened his eyes, “That was . . .” he trailed off, stuck.

 

“Foolish?” Charles supplied, cursing the parallels his life liked to make.

 

“Foolish,” Erik agreed, frowning. They stared at each other for a long while, trying to make sense of the situation.

 

Charles wanted to pull Erik in for another kiss, his lips still tingling from their brief jaunt down memory lane. He didn’t, knowing that there was too much on their plates to allow something like this to go on. He’d only just spoken to Moira today, and Erik was still mourning his wife and child, as well as navigating his two recently discovered children. On top of that was this whole debacle with the strange people. If he couldn’t pursue a relationship with Moira for these reasons, trying to find one in Erik was out of the question.

 

And yet, Charles felt the desire to keep Erik, to try harder, to cast aside all other responsibilities and just  _ go for it _ much harder than he had with Moira. Was there such a thing as soulmates? If so, Erik might be his, for better or worse.

 

“I should go to bed,” Charles said finally, “You’re welcome to come find me if you need to talk.”

 

Erik nodded stiffly, stony faced. Charles offered a small smile and reached a hand up to caress his slightly stubbly cheek, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth, “Goodnight, old friend,” he said.

 

Erik found himself smiling back, tiredly, but knowing that this was not rejection, “Goodnight,” he said. He stood and let Charles leave the room, softly closing the door behind him.

 

Charles wheeled himself to his bedroom and got himself ready for bed. When his head hit the pillow, he was asleep in minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That kiss at the end of the chapter wasn't supposed to happen originally, but Erik and Charles are stubborn fucks and I'm just along for the ride, apparently. Fuckers.
> 
> I usually have three sections, but this was already getting long and I don't think adding anything anywhere on this chapter would do anything other than chop up the tone too much. That said, the next chapter might be more upbeat. Probably not though.


	13. Storge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to rewrite this chapter a time or two. The first part was pretty clunky and I didn't like it very much until I sort of figured out what I was doing. I'm still not happy with the first section that much, but I wanted to include it as a turning point for Hank. This is one of the first times where he feels like he wants to be Kurt's father, which is an important part of this story.
> 
> Also, a note about the racism issue in the first bit of the chapter. I'm a white homosexual female, so while I've faced discrimination, I haven't faced racial discrimination. I tried to get down a sense of what it would be like to experience something like that, but I'm willing to take suggestion for the future.

The dentist that the school used was a local office, just an hour’s drive into town and usually quite accommodating to the school and its mutant population (there was an office slightly closer to the school, but less friendly to mutants). Hank had been a few times himself for checkups, but to his understanding, it would be Kurt’s first time at a real dentists office. He was almost nervous by proxy, though outwardly Kurt seemed quite calm. His wisdom teeth were in dire need of removal, and a cleaning probably wouldn’t go amiss.

 

The other patients in the waiting room kept glancing at them, a little startled by these strange blue creatures, but Hank paid them no mind. He’d become used to the stares even in the short time that he’d stopped using the formula to alter his appearance (probably for the best, he was starting to become immune to it anyway). Kurt didn’t seem bothered either, used to crowds of people watching him in sick fascination. A little girl, maybe four or five, had walked right up to Kurt to inspect him, but her mother and unsubtly dragged her back. Hank only rolled his eyes internally, but he had a few choice words lined up for the woman should she do or say anything nasty.

 

“Mr. Wagner?” the assistant called, looking at her chart, “Dr. Lowi will see you now.”

 

Hank frowned, “Isn’t the appointment supposed to be with Dr. Nakagawa?” he asked.

 

“Dr. Nakagawa had a family emergency and won’t be in today,” the assistant (her name was Nancy, Hank could read on her nametag) explained, “Dr. Lowi is new here, but she’s very good.”

 

Hank’s worry didn’t subside, “I’d like to come in and talk to her, if that’s okay,” he said.

 

“That’s fine,” Nancy said, marking something down on her chart. She gave Hank a bright smile, “You’re a very good father to be so concerned.”

 

Hank flushed under his fur, “Oh, I’m not—he’s not—we’re not related,” he stumbled.

 

Now it was Nancy’s turn to flush at her accidental racism, “Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry, I just assumed—I mean, I shouldn’t have assumed, of course, it’s just that you look so alike in colour that I thought—!”

 

Seeing that the poor girl was close to tears, Hank put his hand up to stop her, “It’s alright, I understand,” he said. He glanced down at Kurt, who was looking shyly at his knees, “We do look a lot alike.”

 

Kurt looked up at him, a small smile betrayed by the bright joy in his eyes. Hank felt an emotion swell up in his chest and choke the breath from his throat. He coughed to dislodge it, “Right, well, let’s go and talk to the doctor,” he said, trying his hardest not to be awkward.

 

Nancy nodded and led them stiffly down the hall, still quite embarrassed over her slip up. They were let into an exam room, where Kurt was directed to sit in the dentist’s chair while Hank leaned against the wall while they waited for Dr. Lowi.

 

Dr. Lowi arrived after another ten minute wait—with each passing minute, Hank grew a degree more annoyed—blustering in with the air of a very put upon woman with a lot to do and little time for it, as well as the snide attitude of a woman who wanted to be the smartest in the room, and often was. Hank immediately didn’t think he liked her very much, but he would reserve his judgements until after he’d spoken to her.

 

To her credit, she didn't give much of a reaction to their appearances, lessening Hank’s annoyance slightly, “Good morning, I’m Doctor Lowi,” she said, in a clear, authoritative voice. She raised an eyebrow at Hank’s presence, “And you are?”

 

Hank extended a polite hand, “Dr. Henry McCoy,” he introduced himself, “I’m acting as Kurt’s guardian and I wanted to talk to you before the procedure.”

 

Dr. Lowi sized him up in the way other scientists did, trying to figure out if they were the same kind of doctor. She took his polite hand with a brisk one, “What did you want to talk about?” she asked.

 

“I just wanted to speak to you about a few little things,” Hank said, taking his hand back, “Kurt’s physiology is slightly different from baseline humans, and I wanted to make sure you understood.”

 

Dr. Lowi sniffed, clearly insulted that she might not understand a patient she’d never encountered before, “Different how so?”

 

Hank gave her a brief rundown of Kurt’s medical background, or lack thereof, and his sensitivity to certain anesthetics and common medical chemicals, “It’s also his first time at a real dentist,” Hank said, smiling over Dr. Lowi’s shoulder at Kurt.

 

“Really?” Dr. Lowi asked, not turning to look at Kurt.

 

“Really,” Kurt said, “The circus had a dentist, but he only ever pulled teeth out. I saw it once when I was little, and I was always careful to keep my teeth clean after that.”

 

Hank chuckled a little and Dr. Lowi finally turned to look at Kurt. Kurt shrank under her gaze, his exuberance tempered as she crossed the room to him and sat down in the rolling chair beside the dentist chair. She calmly instructed Kurt to lay back on the chair and clipped the bib around his neck. She glanced back at Hank, who wasn’t going to move just yet, and began to examine Kurt’s teeth.

 

“Surprisingly clean,” she said, begrudgingly impressed, “No obvious cavities or anything that would suggest neglect.” She poked an instrument into Kurt’s mouth to get a better look at the wisdom teeth she would be removing, “I see two emerging wisdom teeth, but neither look infected at all, so you should consider yourself lucky,” she told Kurt.

 

A few more pokes and prods and Dr. Lowi sat back, “It should be a simple procedure. I’ll do a basic cleaning and take some X-rays. If they come back normal, we’ll proceed with the extraction of the wisdom teeth,” she said.

 

Hank relaxed a bit, “Sounds good to us,” he said. Kurt gave a thumbs up from the chair.

 

Dr. Lowi picked up a chart and began making notes, “I can also fix his canines while I’m at it, if you like.”

 

Hank’s stomach went hot, “I’m sorry?” he asked, startled.

 

Dr. Lowi sighed as though she was speaking to someone particularly slow, “His canines, they’re elongated and sharp at the ends.”

 

“Yes, I know that,” Hank growled, becoming angry now, “What needs to be fixed about them?”

 

Now Dr. Lowi looked up, a little startled by the sudden tension, “Well, they’re  _ elongated _ . . .” she tried, though it was dawning on her that she may have said the wrong thing, “It’s easily corrected, we just have to file them down.”

 

“Dr. Lowi,” Hank said before she could dig herself deeper into the hole that was rising up around her, “Do Kurt’s canine teeth pose a threat to his health in any way whatsoever, or would it be purely for cosmetic reasons that they get filed down?”

 

“Well, that’s a matter of  _ opinion _ frankly,” she said, reaching up to adjust her glasses, “It’s possible that they might hinder normal mouth functions.”

 

Hank turned to Kurt, “Kurt, do you have trouble eating or speaking?”

 

Kurt shook his head, “Not at all,” he said.

 

“And cleaning your teeth?” Hank asked.

 

“No, I do okay,” Kurt said.

 

Hank turned back to Dr. Lowi, “There you have it,” he said, crossing his furry arms over his broad chest, glad for once how intimidating he could look, “There’s no medical reason to file Kurt’s teeth down. If that were to change, I’m sure we could deal with it then.”

 

“Yes, of course.” Dr. Lowi wouldn't look him in the eyes, “I was just considering the cosmetic impact,” she said, trying to save face, but knowing immediately that she’d said the wrong thing again.

 

“Do either of us look particularly concerned with conventional cosmetics to you?” Hank snapped, causing an almost imperceptible flinch in Dr. Lowi’s shoulders. Hank reined back his anger and let out a long breath, “Thank you for your time, Dr. Lowi, but I think we’ll wait until Dr. Nakagawa is back to do the operation,” he said, tugging Kurt off of the chair and leading him to the door.

 

Dr. Lowi flushed, “I’m a perfectly capable dentist,” she defended.

 

“Of that I have no doubt,” Hank assured her, “It’s not your lack of skill that sets you apart, it’s your lack of tact,” he snarled, flashing his own elongated canines just enough for Dr. Lowi to catch a glimpse. He finally left the exam room, one hand on Kurt’s shoulder, guiding him down the hall.

 

“Over so soon?” Nancy asked, surprised to see them.

 

Hank gave her a tight smile, “Will Dr. Nakagawa be gone long?”

 

“Um, no, he should be back by tomorrow,” Nancy said, still perplexed.

 

“Can you please move Kurt’s appointment to a time when Dr. Nakagawa will definitely be able to see him?” Hank asked, trying not to take his frustration out on her. She was only the assistant after all, and her racism had been due to an easy misunderstanding, rather than blatant disregard.

 

“Um, let me check,” Nancy flipped through her files, “The earliest opening is this same day next week, at four in the afternoon.”

 

“That’s perfect, thank you,” Hank said, wanting to leave before Dr. Lowi decided to do something like follow them or something, “We’ll see you then.”

 

“See you then,” Nancy said, too stunned to do anything else.

 

Hank smiled at her one last time before leading Kurt out the door and down the steps of the dentist’s office. They circled around to where he’d parked the car, but Hank didn’t get in, instead turning Kurt to look at him.

 

“Are you okay?” he asked.

 

Kurt blinked, “I am fine,” he said. He seemed surprised that Hank cared so much.

 

Hank grumbled and paced around for a minute, “Are you sure?”

 

Kurt looked up at Hank, tilting his head, “Dr. McCoy, I have been treated much worse than that,” he said, as though it excused the dentist’s actions.

 

A bubble of rage welled up in Hank’s belly, hot smoldering, but only at a simmer for now. With a deep sigh, Hank ran a hand through the fur on his neck, “That’s the problem,” he said sadly.

 

Kurt shrank a little, tail curling around his feet and bringing his hands up to fidget a little, “I am sorry,” he said, “I know I should be angry with that lady, but . . .” he shrugged, but it was stiff and uncomfortable looking, “I mean, look at me. I do not blame her.”

 

Hank’s hot rage was suddenly drenched in ice, causing it to crumple like a soda can. For a second, Hank was looking at his younger self, a little ball of self-loathing over his appearance, and how much he’d wanted to change. At some point in his life, Kurt had carved angelic symbols into his flesh in a desperate attempt to atone for the sin of his own existence. Hank’s heart clenched as he stared down at this boy, who’d only ever wanted love and affection, who only wanted to give the world love and affection, who, at some point, had tried to slice out his perceived ugliness. Hank remembered the feeling, the desire to somehow fix what wasn’t truly broken, only to self-destruct.

 

_ Well then, it behooves me to tell you, that even if we save the world tomorrow, and mutants are accepted into society, that my feet and your natural blue form will never be deemed beautiful. _

 

His words to Raven, from a lifetime ago, came back to him. Raven’s yellow eyes and blue skin stared up at him once again, and this time, Hank wasn't going to fail them.

 

Slowly, so Kurt could duck away if he wanted, Hank drew his arms around Kurt and pulled him to his chest in a tight embrace. It wasn’t as awkward as he thought it would be; Kurt fit so naturally against him that Hank squeezed him tighter, bringing a hand up to cradle Kurt’s head.

 

“You’re beautiful just as you are Kurt, and no one gets to tell you otherwise,” he said, meaning every word of it.

 

Kurt’s bony body, which had gone a little tense in Hank’s arms, relaxed. After a moment’s hesitation, the teenager threw his arms around Hank’s torso, almost not reaching all the way around. His claws tore into Hank’s shirt a little, and there was a tell-tale dampness on the front of his shirt, but Hank didn’t care. Shirts were replaceable. He gently rubbed Kurt’s back to comfort him.

 

“No one ever called me beautiful before,” Kurt nearly whispered, “Vielen Danke.”

 

“You’re welcome Kurt,” Hank said, unable to stop the emotion in his voice.

 

They stayed that way for several minutes before Kurt pulled away, keeping his head down and rubbing his eyes. Hank smiled and ruffled his hair, “Why don’t we stop and get ice cream?” he suggested, “My treat.”

 

Kurt looked up, surprised for a moment, then broke out into a huge smile, “Ja! I would like that!”

 

Hank chuckled, “Alright then,” he said, sliding one arm around Kurt’s shoulders, “Just don’t tell the Professor.”

 

Kurt giggled, “Our secret?”

 

“Our secret,” Hank agreed.

 

Kurt beamed up and him and snuggled into his side for a second. Hank felt a thick, warm emotion bubble up from his chest and take a hold of his lungs and throat, stealing away his breath. He wanted to pull Kurt back into his arms and keep him safe from the world, from all the Dr. Lowi’s who would tell him his teeth needed to filed, from the Foster Mothers who made him perform tricks for entertainment, from human traffickers who would stuff him in electric boxes. Hank’s bulk could easily shield Kurt’s tiny frame, keep him away and safe from everything.

 

It was so tempting, but Hank reined the feeling back before it could suffocate him. He couldn’t do that to Kurt, couldn’t keep him from the world he’d been denied for so long. He could only teach him to navigate the world to the best of his abilities. Hank was not a religious man, but he prayed that it would be enough.

 

They got into the car and headed to an Ice Cream parlour that Hank loved. Kurt chattered the whole time, Dr. Lowi not forgotten, but pushed into the box where Kurt kept all of the minor experiences that he had on a daily basis. The emotion in Hank’s chest was under control for now, but it simmered in his chest, ready to strike when he least expected it.

 

* * *

 

Erik glared at the open suitcase laid out on his bed, waiting to be filled with his meager possessions.

 

_ It’s for the best _ , he thought,  _ If I stay, Wanda, Peter, Charles, they’ll all be at risk. _

 

He hadn’t slept at all since kissing Charles, too strung out to make himself fall asleep. During his hunting days, before any of this had ever happened, he could go for days without sleep, then switch off like a light when he needed to. With these last few years of complacency, he’d let himself grow sloppy. He used to be decisive, making snap judgements and going headlong into action, fully sure of what he was doing. Now he was a wreck, unable to decide what to do even though it should have been obvious.

 

If he stayed, he put all of the people he cared about (and he’d come to care for Wanda and Peter in the short time he’d spent with them, and after discovering that they were his children, he loved them) at risk. He was a curse on the people he loved, having only ever brought them death and misfortune. He should leave and never look back, taking his curse with him.

 

It should have been simple, but for the better part of the night, he’d been staring at his empty suitcase, trying to will himself to fill it. He couldn't seem to bring himself to pack his things and just  _ go _ . As much as he knew it was for the best that he leave and never come back, he didn't  _ want _ to go. He wanted to stay with the last remaining family he had. He wanted to know his children, he wanted to watch his grandchild grow up, he wanted to be a part of a family again. So soon after the loss of Nina, he still missed the warmth of family, even though he’d spent most of his life without it. He wanted to stay at the school, be with them, and stay with Charles.

 

Erik’s lips tingled, and he cursed himself. If he were honest with himself, he’d always loved Charles, and he always would. He’d loved Magda of course, there was no doubt in his heart that he’d loved her, but he couldn’t deny that the reason he’d been drawn to her in the first place was because she reminded him of Charles. Her dark brown curls, pink lips, and kind, empathetic nature had drawn him in and he let himself be pulled into her orbit. She’d given him the greatest gift of his life, and he would forever love her for that.

 

However, Erik’s heart was a vast sea, and there was room for more than one ship to set sail. If Erik stayed, he might eventually have a chance with Charles again. It would be messy, for sure, but Erik didn’t think there would be another Magda to drag him away this time. If he left now, he would give up on family, on love, forever.

 

And that was the crux of the issue he was having. Erik, having loved the last few years surrounded by love, couldn't shake the thirst for it now. Maybe it was withdrawals, and he just wanted to fill the hole left behind by Magda and Nina, but he couldn’t just let go this time. Having had a family for the first time since he was a child, Erik didn’t think he would last long without one, without some kind of direction. Family had been his direction, and his ship was unmoored for the moment, looking for a star to sail by.

 

Erik gritted his teeth and stood, going to his dresser. He was being an idiot, it was too selfish of him to stay, to put the people he loved at risk because he didn’t want to live without them in his life. He couldn’t stay simply because it was the easiest thing for him to dol; he had forged new paths for himself before, he could do it again.

 

Erik pulled open his first dresser and paused; but he couldn’t leave them now, not with the threat hanging over their heads. Forget whatever curse Erik would bring down, there was already something in the shadows, stalking them. If he left, they would be down one powerful mutant to help defend the school. All the students, Hank and Raven, Charles, and Wanda and Peter could all be destroyed, and he wouldn't have been there to protect them.

 

Erik had both hands on a double edged sword and he was gripping tight enough to cut himself to ribbons. There was nowhere to turn, nothing to do. Stay or leave, it could all be the same. He could lose them if he left the school, and he would never see them again if he did, whether they lived long happy lives or not. He could lose them if he stayed, but he could do better to protect them if he stayed close.

 

The realization took the strength out of Erik’s knees, and he slumped to the floor, leaning back against the bed. He put his head between his knees and took some deep breaths, trying to calm down.

 

_ If I leave, they could die. If I stay, they could die _ , Erik thought, his brain swimming in circles. There was no way out that guaranteed the safety of the people he loved.  _ What do I need to do? _ he thought, trying to think his way out of it.  _ What do I need to do? What do I need to do? _

 

Erik stopped, opening his eyes,  _ What do I  _ **_want_ ** _ to do? _

 

That was an easier question to answer. He wanted to stay.

 

_ So stay _ , his traitorous brain said, and Erik had to do a quick mental poke to make sure there were no snooping telepaths mucking around in his brain (he trusted Charles, but the little redhead and the rogue telepath were another story). He’d already stayed when he’d first figured it out nearly a week ago, though he hadn’t been sure. He’d been poised to leave months ago, after the house was rebuilt, but he’d come back, having no place or direction to go. All the evidence suggested that he wanted to stay, and that he wanted to make this place his new home.

 

Erik stood up, finding his strength again. He closed his dresser drawer and turned back to his suitcase.  _ If danger comes to my family again, I’ll  _ **_die_ ** _ before I let them get hurt, _ he vowed. He had helped bring down Apocalypse when it counted, and he was the feared Magneto, mutant terrorist. If danger came knocking, Erik would knock it right back.

 

Resolved, Erik flipped the lid of his suitcase closed and pulled it off the bed to put it away. He was a father, and he needed to protect his children.

 

* * *

 

Wanda groaned and heaved again, her stomach doing it’s best to leap out of her throat, “Urgh, fucking asshole.”

 

“Don’t call the kid an asshole,” Peter said, holding her hair back, “He’ll get self-esteem issues.”

 

Wanda glared at her brother, “You know I could literally erase you from ever existing, right?”

 

“You wouldn’t,” Peter said with complete confidence. He rubbed her back and flushed the toilet. There wasn't much in it this time, she’d been puking for the better part of the hour, “Water?”

 

“Mmm,” Wanda groaned, resting her head on the cool porcelain. Peter quickly got a glass from the kitchen and some ice, then returned to Wanda’s bathroom to fill the cup with tap water and give it to her.

 

“If you need me to run for anything, just say so,” he said, continuing to rub her back while she sipped her water.

 

“I will,” Wanda said, leaning against her brother. It seemed to be over for now, and she was grateful, “But stay, for now.”

 

“Not going anywhere,” Peter said, plopping his butt down on the tile next to Wanda. He glanced down at her belly, “How far along are you?”

 

“Probably somewhere in the middle of the second trimester,” Wanda said, “If I’ve got the timeline right.”

 

“You’re pretty big for second trimester,” Peter said, reaching down to pat the swollen belly. It wasn’t that big, but she was noticeably pregnant.

 

Wanda hummed, “Could be twins,” she said.

 

Peter chuckled, “It very well could be. Runs in the family.”

 

Wanda hummed and rested her head on Peter’s shoulder, “Carry me to bed,” she asked. She looked like she was about to fall asleep.

 

Gently scooping her up into his arms, Peter carried her to her bedroom at normal speed, not wanting to hurt her. Princess Ice Cream the cat was curled up on the bed, purring loudly. Peter set Wanda down and crawled under the covers with her. A nap sounded nice, right about now.

 

A few minutes later, when they were only just dozing off, there was a knock at the door. Wanda groaned and blinked awake, sleepiness sloughing off of her consciousness, leaving her sluggish but alert. Yawning, she crawled out of bed, Peter grunting as he followed her. They weren’t expecting any guests, but they were still surprised to see Erik on the other side of the door.

 

“Oh,” Wanda exclaimed in surprise, “I thought we’d be the ones going to look for you.”

 

Erik managed a tight smile, looking for all the world a man on a mission he didn't want to embark on, “May I come in?” he asked, voice a little rough with fatigue.

 

Wanda glanced back at Peter, who shrugged. She stepped aside and let Erik into the room. He cross into the space with sure steps, but he looked out of place, which was odd on a man like Erik Lehnsherr, the great Magneto. He turned to face them, silent for the moment, while Wanda and Peter stood shoulder to shoulder, waiting.

 

“I suppose we should talk,” Erik said, “But honestly, I don't know what to say.”

 

“You didn’t know about us, did you?” Peter asked, already shifting his weight impatiently, “You never knew.”

 

Erik shook his head, “No, I left before even Marya knew she was pregnant,” he said.

 

Wanda and Peter glanced at each other, “What would you have done, if you knew?” Wanda asked.

 

Erik cast his eyes down, “I want to tell you that I would have come for you,” he said softly, “I might have, even, but I wouldn't have been a good father. Not at that time,” he admitted.

 

“And what about now?” Peter asked, “We’re all grown up, we don't need a father to look after us.”

 

Erik looked up at them, and for a second, Wanda could see the resemblance between them and Erik. It was slight, only really evident in subtle ways, but it was there if you looked for it, “I know. You’ve both grown into such beautiful people, and I regret that I had no part in it, but . . .” Erik took a deep breath, “If you’ll let me, I’d like to be a part of your lives, in whatever fashion you’ll allow.”

 

Wanda was actually a little surprised by this declaration; she wasn’t sure what she’d expected, for Erik to run for the hills or get angry at them or their mother, but this quiet request to be a part of their lives wasn’t it. Erik looked so hopeful in that moment that she felt her heart crack open and make space for him.

 

Saying nothing, Wanda stepped forward across the small space between her and her father. Before she could second guess herself, Wanda wrapped her arms around Erik, squeezing him tightly. Erik’s arms immediately came around to hug her back, cradling her head and petting her hair. A presence at her side let her know that Peter had joined them, wrapping one arm around her waist and the other around Erik’s torso. Erik’s chest heaved as he breathed them both in deeply, trembling with the force of his emotions.

 

“I promise I’ll do right by you,” he whispered, “Meine Schätze, I’ll keep you both safe.”

 

Wanda shivered, feeling the tears prick her eyes. She buried her face into Erik’s neck, inhaling his scent; it was funny, she’d never thought about it before, but now he felt that Erik smelt exactly how a father should.

 

They stayed that way for several minutes, at some point collapsing to the floor together. Wanda was starting to get a cramp in her leg, and had to pull away. Erik remained a little stiff, as though he didn't want to let her go just yet, but he didn't resist. Wanda sat back on her butt and wiped the tears from her eyes. Peter’s hand blurred for a second and his eyes were suddenly dry. Erik, on the other hand, didn’t seem to care that his eyes were shining, he looked at the two of them with such hope and reverence that Wanda almost started crying again.

 

Erik cupped both their faces in his big, warm hands. They were calloused and rough, but comforting in a way that was almost instinctual, “I”m going to be here for you, from now on,” he said.

 

“You better be,” Peter said, his voice a little shaky, “You owe us like, twenty six years of birthday presents.”

 

Wanda laughed, and Erik followed suit. Soon they were all laughing, clutching each other tightly. When they finally came down from their slightly hysterical laughter, they all had tears streaming down their faces. Erik let out a long huff of air and stood, holding out his hands for the two of them to take.

 

They took the offered hands,and Erik pulled them up, but didn't let go. He smiled at them and they smiled back. It should have felt awkward, but somehow, it felt natural, like misaligned piece falling into place. They were going to be okay. They were going to be a family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it. I like the idea that Erik, if given the chance, is actually a really good family man. I'm really looking forward to writing the upcoming chapters. Human interaction is something I write well (odd considering I have ASD and don't socialize well).
> 
> Meine Schätze - my treasures


	14. Parents and Twins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, finals snuck up on me and took a bite out of my ass, so I could't work on this. I'm on break now, so I'll hopefully get the next chapter or two out faster before the next semester eats me. Thank you all for reading and I hope all your exams and finals went well!
> 
> I figured out how to format the chapter a little better, so hopefully there won't be such huge gaps between paragraphs anymore.

Erik—surprisingly or unsurprisingly, Peter couldn't really tell—seemed to fall into his new role as Peter and Wanda’s father easily. There was none of the awkwardness that Peter had been dreading. Erik took to fatherhood, even to two adults, like a duck took to water. It was such a natural fit into their lives that Peter sometimes had to catch himself, remembering that no, Erik hadn’t always been around for them.

“Peter, don’t slouch, you’re going to ruin your posture,” Erik said, flicking the back of Peter’s neck.

Peter rubbed his neck, “Whatever, dad,” he grumbled.

Erik ignored the sarcasm and walked off to hand Wanda the book she’d asked him to bring, “You shouldn’t slouch either Wanda, the baby will grow a crooked spine.”

“That sounds like bullshit,” Wanda said, but she straightened nonetheless.

Erik smirked and turned back to his son, “See, you sister knows that I know best. You should be more like her.”

Peter rolled his eyes as Wanda preened under the praise, “Great, barely a week into this ‘having a dad’ thing and you’re already being an ass. I’m having second thoughts about this.”

Erik ruffled Peter’s shaggy hair as he passed him again, “Well, that’s just too bad. You’re stuck with me now,” he said.

Peter huffed, slouching further into the couch in defiance. Wanda tried to hide her laughter behind her hand, but failed miserably. Peter stuck his tongue out at her, making her roll her eyes at him. She settled back into the overstuffed chair she was in, opening up the book Erik had just brought her.

It was strange, but it was nice. Peter had been expecting a kind of adjustment period where they all got used to being ‘family’, but honestly this was the first time in a very long time that Peter felt like he even had a family. Wanda had left him eleven years ago to find her own path in life, Mom had decided to drown herself in the bottom of a bottle years before that, and Ellie, while she was a sweet kid, had never really been his sister, always spending as much time out of the house or with her dad as she possibly could. So this new togetherness that swirled around them was different, but nice. Erik was thrilled to bits just being near them and having the opportunity to be in their lives, which was such a nice departure from Marya’s policy of only paying attention when she was sober enough to notice that they’d done something wrong.

Erik returned a few minutes later with three mugs of spiced milk, carried hands-free on a metal tray. He gingerly handed the mugs to the two of them and sat down with his own mug, opening a book and thumbing through it.

Peter hummed as he sipped his steaming mug, “What’re you reading?” he asked, tilting his head to try and look at the title.

Erik looked up over his glasses (he wore reading glasses, how strange was it to think that the Great and Powerful Mutant Terrorist Magneto wore reading glasses?), “I’m considering some knitting patterns for blankets. For the baby.”

Both twins looked up, “You knit?” Peter asked, unable to contain the glee in his voice (first glasses and now knitting? Will wonders never cease?).

“Yes, but it’s been a while,” Erik hummed, unfazed by their delight in his unexpected domesticity, “I think I’ll keep it simple for now, and make more complicated things later.”

“What kind of complicated things?” Wanda asked, setting down her book for the moment.

Erik shrugged, “Sweaters, mittens, hats. Really, anything can be ‘complicated’, it all depends on the pattern you use,” he paused for a moment, “I used to make all of your sister’s hats and mittens. I taught her to make a scarf.”

For a second, Peter thought of Ellie, but he then remembered Nina, their other half sister, Erik’s daughter. The mood in the room dipped sharply and Wanda and Peter glanced up at each other while Erik glared at his book of knitting patterns. Peter panicked for a minute before blurting out, “Hey, think you can teach me?”

Erik blinked and looked up, “You want to learn to knit?” he asked.

Peter nodded vigorously, “Sure do. ‘Been a lifelong passion. Yup,” he rambled. He could see Wanda out of the corner of his eye facepalming, the bitch.

Erik raised an incredulous eyebrow, “Really?” he asked, clearly not buying what Peter was selling.

Peter smiled ear to ear, trying his hardest to look sincere and honest (it wasn’t very convincing on him, to say the least), “Of course. Would I make something like that up?”

“Yes,” Wanda said, expression deadpan. Peter glared at her, but couldn't retaliate from across the room. He could have zipped over and pinched her, but then she’d retaliate back and it would devolve into a petty fight.

Erik decided to take the out, “Well, knitting is actually pretty simple, once you get the hang of it,” he said, sitting up a little straighter in his chair, “All you really need is patience and concentration.”

“Neither of which Peter has,” Wanda teased.

“I will staple all of your shirts together,” Peter hissed.

“Enough,” Erik reprimanded, and they both calmed down. He scooted his chair closer to Peter’s so he could tilt them book for him to see, “These are the more simple patterns, but I think you should start with a scarf or blanket for now.”

“Alright,” Peter said, eyes flicking over the pages of the book. Admittedly, it looked like you could do some cool stuff with knitting.

“I’ll need to get supplies,” Erik said, “But that would require going into town, which I can’t do right now.”

“Yeah, your face is still kind of plastered everywhere,” Peter said. It was strange to think that Cairo had been such a short time ago.

“I can get them,” Wanda said, “I’m going into town to get an ultrasound on Thursday, I can pick it up then. Just give me a list of things.”

“Thank you Wanda,” erik said, smiling at her, “You can even pick out some wool in colours you like.”

Wanda beamed and rubbed her round belly, “What do you think it is?”

“A baby,” Peter said, not missing a beat.

Wanda rolled her eyes and flicked her powers at him, causing a light jolt to travel up his hand, but it dissipated by the time it got to his elbow, “Asshole.”

“Bitch,” Peter hissed, more seriously considering pinching her now.

“Stop,” Erik growled, “And it doesn’t matter if it's a boy or a girl, so long as they’re healthy.”

“True, but it’s fun to speculate,” Wanda said, “Though the bigger question is whether or not it’s twins.”

“Yeah, there’s kind of a precedent in the family,” Peter said, “At least on Mom’s side. She said she had a lot of cousins who were twins.”

“On my side too,” Erik said, “My mother was a twin herself. I had a third cousin who was a triplet, though the other two babies didn’t make it.”

“Oh god, if this is triplets, I’m going to just sleep until it’s all over,” Wanda groaned, “Fuck that.”

Peter chuckled, “Anyway, my vote’s for twins. Erik?”

Erik shrugged, “It’s likely.”

Peter sighed, but didn’t push, figuring he probably wasn’t going to get a decisive ‘vote’ out of the pragmatic Erik, “Wanda, what do you think?”

Wanda hummed, petting her belly some more, “Twins would explain why I’m as big as I am already,” she said, “So I’m going to say twins.”

Peter couldn’t resist, “That or you’re getting fat.”

Wanda scowled, “Okay, now I’m really going to hurt you.”

A bolt of red energy launched out at Peter, narrowly missing him as he darted away. He landed a sharp pinch on Wanda’s arm, causing her to hiss, before the energy whipped around and smacked his ass. He yelped and zipped away again. Peter was about to go in for another attack when the metal in the room began to rattle.

“That’s enough out of both of you,” Erik said, “If you’re going to horse around, do it outside.”

“Sorry,” they both said at the same time, a little sheepish. Erik watched them for another moment, waiting for them to misbehave again, before settling back with his book.

Peter returned to his chair and sat down, picking up his now lukewarm mug of spiced milk. It was different, having Erik around to be their father, but he couldn’t bring himself to complain all that much.

* * *

 

After a week of no incidents or sightings of their watchers, Mystique was getting a little paranoid.

She didn't think for a moment that whoever had been watching them had just up and left them alone to their own devices. She wasn’t naive or stupid. It was more likely that they had gotten smarter, or backed off after discovering that they were on to them. They were biding their time, waiting for them to relax, to slip up and let their guard down. Well, Mystique wasn’t about to let that happen. She would remain vigilant, she would protect this house and these children, to the death if she had to.

“I’m  _ dying _ .”

Mystique stopped in the middle of the hall, blood turning to ice for a moment before she registered the whiny, pouting quality of Kurt’s voice. She remembered that he’d been into town yesterday to get his wisdom teeth removed and was still recovering. Whatever pain meds he’d been on when he came home must have worn off; he sounded absolutely  _ miserable _ .

Mystique, against her better judgement, poked her head into the sitting room where Kurt’s voice was coming from. Kurt was bundled up in several soft looking blankets, with a few pillows and cushions piled up around him. Hank was sitting next to the little nest on the couch, looking exasperated, but strangely fond.

“You’ll feel better if you take your medication,” he said, holding out a few bottles of pills.

Kurt buried his face into his blankets, “I don’t want to put anything in my mouth,” he said petulantly.

“You don't even have to chew it, all you need is to swallow it with some water,” Hank said with a sigh.

Kurt grumbled something imperceivable into the blankets. Mystique frowned and walked fully into the room. Hank startled a little to see her, but Kurt hardly looked up until she was standing right in front of him.

“Kurt,” she said sternly, “Take your medication. You need to heal before you can join us back in the field. If you don’t, you’ll be of no use to us.”

Kurt shrank into his blankets, eyes wide, “Yes ma’am,” he said in a small voice. He reached out a hand to take the medicine from Hank, who was frowning up at Mystique. Kurt popped the pills into his mouth and accepted a glass of water Hank offered him. Within a few minutes, he was nodding off, the pills making him drowsy. Hank got up and stretched him out on the couch, making him more comfortable.

Once he was finished, he turned to Mystique, “Did you really need to be so harsh with him?”

Mystique tried not to bristle, “Sometimes you need a firm hand to get things done. Your ‘soft touch’ was going nowhere.”

Hank scoffed, “Yeah well, the kid’s had enough firm hands to last a lifetime. I think a soft touch wouldn’t go amiss,” he said, standing up and reaching to scoop Kurt into his arms, “I’m going to take him back to his room to get some proper rest.”

Mystique didn’t answer, a little startled to watch Hank be so gentle with her son. Hank was a big guy, and Kurt was small for his age, so it wasn’t surprising necessarily how small and fragile her son looked cradled in Hank’s arms. What  _ was _ surprising was how natural it looked for Hank to carry the boy. Maybe it was the blue skin/fur, playing tricks on Mystique’s mind, or maybe it was the way Hank was so gentle and caring with Kurt, looking down at him with a fondness that, once upon a time, she had imagined herself seeing on Azazel’s face.

Hank brushed past Mystique, walking towards the door. He’s almost immediately set upon by the other X-Men and Jubilee (minus Peter); Mystique got the impression that they had been told to leave Kurt alone while he recovered, but had stuck around anyway just in case. Hank easily, but awkwardly, assuaged their worries, letting them know that Kurt would be feeling much better by tomorrow morning. They began to follow Hank to Kurt’s room, but Mystique stepped out of the room.

“You bunch seem lively tonight,” she said, letting her voice carry down the hall, “Why don’t we go down to the danger room for a training session?”

The X-Men stiffened and tried to make a protest, but Mystique hardened her gaze, “We all know that wasn’t a suggestion,” she said, “Jean, call Peter to meet us in the danger room. We’re having an evening session.”

The group of teenagers groaned and complained amongst themselves, but obeyed her orders all the same. Jubilee unsubtly extracted herself from the group and continued to follow Hank and Kurt down the hall while the rest trudged towards the elevator to the basement. Jean put her fingers to her temple and Peter made it into the elevator just as it closed.

“What the hell guys? What’s with the late night training session?” he asked, “Did something happen?”

“Everyone’s gotten a little too relaxed lately,” Mystique said, “So I decided to put you back on your toes. We’re down a member until Kurt recovers, so I need all of you to work harder.”

Peter grumbled, “I was tryn’a spend a nice night bonding with my dad, and now I have to deal with this crap,” he said, turning to the others, “I know one of you fucked up. Who did it?”

“None of us fucked up, asshole,” Scott hissed, elbowing Peter in the ribs.

“Enough,” Mystique ordered. They all quiets down, knowing not to test her boundaries when she was in this kind of mood.

They marched into the changing rooms and met Mystique inside the danger room. She set it only to moderate difficulty and began the session. As a team, they functioned pretty well, but Mystique wasn't wrong about them needing to adapt to being down a member. She’d have to come up with some different training session ideas that focussed on if one of them was injured in the field or something similar.

Mystique felt Erik’s presence next to her before he entered her field of vision, “They’re good,” he commented, coming to stand next to her, “You’ve trained them well.”

“Not well enough,” Mystique said, “Not yet.”

Erik hummed. Peter noticed him standing next to Mystique and waved before dodging around a sentinel blast. Erik chuckled, and for some reason, it annoyed Mystique to no end.

“Is there a reason you're here?” she asked snappishly.

“I’m watching my son practice,” Erik answered, “Isn't that what normal parents do?”

Mystique scoffed, “You’re hardly a normal parent.”

Erik turned to her, raising a brow, “I could say the same about you.”

Mystique tensed; already feeling fragile from her earlier confrontation with Hank, she didn’t want to bring it up with Erik. Then again, out of everyone in the house, maybe he would understand best.

They didn't say anything to each other for the rest of the session, silently watching the X-Men train. Finally, Mystique relented when it became clear that they were all beginning to slip from exhaustion (though she made a mental note to work on their stamina). They all trudged listlessly to the changing rooms, even Peter seemed wiped. Mystique left them to sort themselves out and returned to her room.

A half an hour later, Erik was knocking on her door, “Got a minute?” he asked, holding up a bottle of whiskey.

Mystique stepped aside to let him inside, “This is a school, where the hell did you get that?”

Erik shrugged, “Charles’ office.”

Mystique snorted, “Figures,” she said. She sat down on her bed and gestured for Erik to take her desk chair. He situated himself and set the two tumblers in his other hand down so he could pour.

Erik handed her one and they clinked glasses. The surreality of the situation hit Mystique as she took a sip from her glass. Sitting across from her was a man who had trained her to kill, fucked her, and tried to kill her, and they were calmly sharing a bottle of whiskey, both of them estranged parents to children who had spent their entire lives not knowing them. She almost wanted to laugh, but it died in her throat.

They finished off the first glass in silence. Erik held out his hand to take her glass and refilled it, “So you and Azazel?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Mystique said, taking back her glass, “Are you surprised?”

“Not really,” Erik said, topping off his own tumbler, “The two of you seemed to be drawn together. You were a better match than we were.”

Mystique hummed, “I won't argue with that,” she said, “We understood each other more than anything else. We could relate to one another in a way that no one else ever could.”

Erik nodded, “I know the feeling,” he said, eyes far off for a second, “The two of you were pretty serious?”

Mystique shrugged, “Not really, it was actually pretty casual right up until it wasn't.”

Erik laughed, “Yeah, a child will muddy the waters pretty quickly.”

“Tell me about it.” Mystique drained her glass and held it out to be refilled again, “You know, I think he might have actually been a decent father. Not great or anything, but he was going to try. At the very least, he stuck around.”

“I think that's the best anyone can do,” Erik said, pouring her some more whiskey, “To try, even when you don't know what you're doing.”

“Did you know what you were doing?” Mystique asked before she could stop herself. It took a lot to get her drunk, but what she had already was loosening her tongue just enough.

Erik paused, taking a long drink from his glass and swirling the amber liquid around, “No, not at all,” he said.

Mystique decided to change the subject, “You and the twins seem to be getting along well.”

The tension in the room lessened considerably, “Yes, I'm pretty surprised. I thought for sure it would be more awkward.”

“I think if it was just one of them here, just Peter maybe, it would be. Wanda’s a stabilizing influence on him, they balance each other out,” Mystique said, “Plus, they're somewhat older and they know what they're doing with themselves. Hell, Wanda’s about to be a mother herself.”

“God, I know,” Erik said, leaning back in his chair, “I can’t believe that I'm about to be a grandfather.”

Mystique laughed outright, feeling more relaxed than she had in years. Erik chuckled along with her, “Fuck, when the hell did we get so old?” she asked.

“Fucked if I know, I was busy doing other things.” Erik shrugged, setting mystique off into another fit of giggles.

They talked for a while longer about nothing in particular, catching up and drinking Charles’ stolen, pretentiously expensive whiskey. There was a lingering tenseness in the air, so many things that neither of them wanted to bring up, but it was nice, talking with Erik again. Years ago, he had been her mentor, but now they were equals, which gave Mystique a small amount of vindication, though she kept that to herself.

Eventually, half the bottle was gone and Erik finally took an axe to the ice that was hovering over them, “How did you lose Kurt?”

Mystique stopped and stared down into her half empty glass (half full? Whatever), “How do you know I lost him? I could have left him behind for his own safety.”

Erik only looked at her with this strange expression on his face, like he could tell that she would never do that. Of course she wouldn't, and Erik knew her well enough to know that. If she had, she wouldn’t be this torn up about seeing Kurt again, alive after all these years. With a sigh, Mystique set aside her glass.

“Azazel and I, we were being hunted by Project Wideawake,” she began. She proceed to tell him about the worst night of her life, feeling rather sick to her stomach. By the end of it though, it felt like a weight off of her shoulders; she had carried the guilt for so long, without ever being able to tell another soul. When she finished, Mystique broke down into tears burying her face in her hands.

“I  _ looked _ ,” she sobbed, “I went back and I looked for him and I couldn't find anything. It had snowed the day before I woke up. There were no tracks,  _ nothing _ to suggest he’d been taken anywhere.”

“It’s not your fault,” Erik said quietly, having migrated to the bed next to her, rubbing her back as she trembled.

Mystique sniffled, “I just . . . it’s so hard to look at him sometimes,” she said, “I think about everything that I’ve missed and I just . . . it’s too much.”

Erik tensed for a moment, “I know the feeling.”

Mystique felt like a cad, “Sorry,” she said, “I didn't mean it like that.”

“It’s alright,” Erik said, “And besides, at the very least, I prove that it’s not too late for you to make things right with Kurt.”

“I suppose,” Mystique said, but she wasn’t convinced, “He seems to be close with Hank.”

“Kurt? Yes, I’ve noticed that,” Erik said, “It’s sweet, really, the way Hank is with him. I think they match up well.”

“I’m honestly surprised that Charles hasn’t descended on the poor boy and smothered him,” Mystique said dryly, picking up her glass again.

Erik chuckled, “He can be a little overwhelming.”

Mystique groaned and flopped backwards on her bed, “You don't have to tell  _ me _ about it.”

Erik picked up the bottle and topped off both of their glasses, finishing off the bottle, “Well, that’s the last of that,” he lamented, “Here’s hoping Charles won’t notice for a day or two.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Mystique said, sitting up and clinking their glasses together. They drank slowly, savouring the last few drops. Mystique felt more relaxed now, though she knew that she should be on alert until the danger was passed. There hadn’t been anything since that day, however, and she doubted they were still watching them in the same way. Whoever these people were, they were smarter than that.

Erik collected the glasses and stood, placing his hand on Mystique’s bare knee as he did. Years ago, it might have felt sexual, but now it only seemed familiar, and old flame that had settled into candlelight. He stretched and rubbed his eyes, yawning.

“I’ll see you tomorrow Mystique,” he said, “But let the children have the morning off. You’re too harsh on them sometimes.”

“Alright,” Mystique said, once again falling back on her bed and staring at the ceiling, “We’ll start after lunch or something.”

Erik gave a nod, “Goodnight Mystique,” he said, then he turned and left. Mystique had always liked that about Erik, he was never one to overstay a welcome.

Left alone with only her thoughts for company, her mood began to sour again. Erik may be getting along with his long lost children, but he hadn’t known about them until recently, he hadn’t birthed them from his own body and then abandoned them. There was no resentment to be had in that situation. If Kurt ever knew that Mystique was his mother, he would hate her for leaving him. Though the weight of her secret was now lifted, she still felt the sick curl of guilt in her gut, and she could never forgive herself for what had happened.

On top of that, what would she say to Kurt if he ever asked her about what she’d done to avenge him and his father? Azazel had died protecting them, and she hadn’t pulled the trigger on the man responsible for it. He’d walked away with his life after destroying theirs. At the time, she’d thought it didn’t matter if Trask lived at that point, he’d already killed her lover and child. Trask had been destroyed enough by her, she didn’t need to avenge the dead, they were dead, what did they care?

But Kurt was alive, and what could she tell him about the man who had destroyed them? She had let Trask walk, and so Kurt didn’t have the justice he deserved.

Groaning, Mystique sat up and set about washing so she could go to bed. It was better that she stayed as far from Kurt as possible. It was better this way, she told herself. He deserved better than her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually got my wisdom tooth removed around the same time that Kurt did, which was why I wrote it in, really. Poor baby, it really does hurt a lot.
> 
> I always liked the idea that Erik was naturally suited to be a father and that was what he would have been if he hadn't gone down he path that he did. Also I hate awkwardness so we're skipping that bit where they all get to know each other. Everyone gets to be happy!


	15. Plans of Action

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays everyone! Here comes MishaClaus with the gift of a new chapter! I haven't been writing as mush as I'd like to, but now that I'm back in BC for the holidays, I have to hide from my family somehow, so probably I'll have at least one more chapter up by the end of the holidays.
> 
> Please Read: A few days ago, my cat, Lyla, got diagnosed with diabetes. Her vet bills haven't been astronomical, but I am worried about paying for her future bills and medications. All of you have been so great, and I really appreciate all of you. I'm going to open up fanfic commissions. Prices will depend on word count, but for more info, go here http://misha-teaparty.tumblr.com/post/154950861098/fanfic-commissions-so-i-can-afford-to-keep-my-cat

Charles wanted to scream in frustration.

For nearly two weeks, there had been no sign of their watchers. Not even regular telepathic sweeps were turning up anything. He was beginning to get a little frazzled, and he could tell that the others were feeling the same. The students especially were beginning to chafe under the restrictions placed on them, but Charles didn't want to lift them, just in case that was what they were waiting for.

It was getting annoying.

“Do we have anything?” Charles asked, rubbing his eyes.

“Nothing’s turned up,” Hank said mournfully, “All of my added security measures are showing that the grounds are clear.”

“We’ve found nothing on patrols and none of my old contacts know anything about anything called ‘Ashcroft’,” Raven said, “I’m still waiting on a few to get back to me, but I think this is a new organization.”

“And Moira hasn’t heard anything either,” Charles said, “So we’re looking at a group that’s either well protected, very small, or very specialized.”

“So what’s next?” Erik asked, “We’re not just going to let this go ignored.”

“No, but it might be time to switch tactics,” Charles said, “We might have to try and draw them out.”

Hank frowned, “Is that safe?”

Charles sighed, “Not in the slightest, but from what we were able to get out of Raven’s mind, they seem to have a target in mind. We’re not sure who they’re after, but we can make a list of likely candidates.”

“Me, for one,” Erik said, “I'm the most wanted mutant threat on the planet that’s still alive.”

“I’d say I might be a target as well, but if that were true, they would have taken me that night.” Raven crossed her arms and tapped her foot, “Unless they're waiting for something, some kind of signal or command.”

“That could be it,” Hank said, scratching his chin, “You as well, Professor. You’re the world’s most powerful telepath. We already know that they have at least one telepath, it could just be that they’re after telepaths. Collecting them for something.”

“And this isn’t even mentioning the nearly three hundred others who live in the school,” Charles said, “It could be any one of the students or staff.”

“So what do we do? We have no way of know who or what they’re after, and no way of tracking them down,” Raven grumbled, “We’re stuck between a rock and a hard place.”

“We could wait them out,” Hank suggested, “Eventually they’ll have to make a move, if they have any sort of pans beyond watching us.”

Erik shook his head, “Not a good idea. If we wait, it gives them the advantage of being able to learn our movements and find our weakest points. We need to act.”

“I say we try and draw them out,” Raven said, “Send small groups out that seem undefended and see if any of them are targeted. If they attack or try to follow them, we swoop in and capture them to interrogate them.”

“You want to put students at risk just to catch one of these psychos?” Hank bristled, growling.

“Absolutely not, but we don't really have a lot of options,” Raven snapped, “We only make it look like they're undefended. We don't even have to send the student themselves out. I can shift into them and act as a decoy.”

“Unless their telepath finds you,” Hank pointed out.

“So Charles will be on the lookout,” Erik said, “Connected to her at all times and scanning the area.”

Hank gritted his teeth, “No way, it’s too big of a risk. If we provoke them, there’s no telling what they’ll do. They might capture Raven, or a student. And if it goes sour, they might retaliate and attack the school directly.”

All eyes turned to Charles, and a pit of sickly dread settled in his stomach. It was times like this when he hated that he was in charge. All he wanted was to run his school and keep the children safe. However, when the students were mutants and the world at large feared mutants, keeping them safe was a tall order.

Charles had to consider all options here. If they waited, it was leaving the ball in their court, only the ball might be a hand grenade and they could never guess when or even if they would strike. They might be able to defend their home, but they had no idea what they were up against, and someone could get hurt. If they tried to draw them out, someone might get hurt, or worse. On the other hand, if they pulled it off, it would be a huge step forward for them in knowing what they were up against. It was a risk either way, but one was more calculated than the other.

“We draw them out,” Charles said, hating himself, “But we take  _ every _ precaution. Raven acts as the decoy, Erik works as a tail, and I'll be in both your minds.”

“The X-Men should be on mission as well,” Raven said, “They’ve been trained for this. Plus, they look like any other teen. Very inconspicuous, aside from Nightcrawler.”

“And Jean is another telepath, a powerful one at that,” Erik pointed out, “Few people know about her, so even if these people are expecting you, they might be blindsided by her.”

It seemed like things were coming together, but Hank’s face could make storm clouds tremble, “Hank—” Charles laid a hand on his furry arm, “I know it's risky, and it could all go terribly wrong, but we don't have much of a choice,” he said, “If we wait, we might be too late, and all the students could be at risk.”

Hank clenched his fists, still as a statue, “I’m going to make some tracking devices,” he said abruptly, turning away from Charles, “Something they won't notice easily, just in case this all goes wrong.” His tone suggested that he was expecting it to go completely wrong.

“ . . . Great idea Hank,” Charles said softly, “Thank you.”

Hank nodded and stalked out of the room, a thundercloud of emotion in blue fur. Charles groaned a buried his face in his hands. Erik’s hand on his shoulder was warm, firm, and entirely welcome.

“We’re keeping them safe,” he said, voice quiet, “Hiding . . . it just doesn't work.”

Charles took a deep breath and sat back in his chair. He crossed one arm over his chest a laid his hand over Erik’s, “I don't want it to be this way,” he said, wishing he could just cry about it. But he couldn't, he needed to be the strong leader they needed.

Erik squeezed his shoulder, “Neither do I,” he said. He gave a final squeeze before walking towards the door. Charles watched him go, trying not be be forlorn.

With a sigh, Charles wheeled himself to his office. He needed to work out some logistics.

* * *

 

_ X-Men, please come to my office. _ Kurt jolted a little as the Professor’s voice flittered directly into his brain,  _ There’s something we need to talk about. _

The telepathic intrusion was unexpected, and slightly worrying, but Kurt had become used to such messages over the last few weeks as they tried to find whoever was watching them. Usually, the Professor would use the PA system, but if there was something he wanted to speak to them about without alerting the other students. There were things he didn't want getting out to anyone but them, Erik, Mystique, and Professor McCoy, so as not to cause a panic.

Kurt met with Ororo and Scott in the hall outside the Professor’s office, and he could see Jean approaching from the other end of the hall. Peter was already waiting by the door for the rest of them.

“Any idea?” Scott asked Peter as they reached the door. Peter shook his head, causing Scott to frown and the rest of them to exchange nervous glances.

Kurt’s tail swished nervously as they opened the door and stepped inside. The Professor and Mystique were standing together behind the Professor’s desk (well, Mystique was standing), both of them grim faced and serious. The X-Men all lined up in front of the desk, just as Mystique had taught them to, and waited for someone to break the tension.

“X-Men, we’ve come to a decision about how we’re going to proceed with the mission,” the Professor said, not sounding pleased about it at all, “We know that our watchers have a target in mind, so we're going to try and start baiting them into making a move.”

Kurt tensed; that didn't sound like a great idea. The others didn't seem to think so either, “Sir?” Ororo asked, looking a skeptical as they all felt.

“I know it’s a risk,” the Professor said before she could continue, “But we’re simply out of options. Waiting them out presents a whole slew of risks that we can’t let them have. However, I understand that this might make some of you uncomfortable. Any of you who wish not to participate in this is more than welcome to back out.”

“If you you choose to back out, it won't be held against you,” Mystique said, “You won't be punished or kicked off the team, you’ll just keep patrolling the grounds.”

Kurt shifted on his feet. This certainly sounded dangerous, but at the same time, how could he back out? These people, this school, they were his home and family. If they got hurt and he could have done something about it, it was his fault they got hurt. A quick telepathic link told him that all the others felt the same.

_ What do we do? _ Jean asked in their heads. They had taken to talking to each other this way when they had things they didn't want to talk about in front of the adults.

_ We have to do it, _ Peter said,  _ People could get hurt if we don't. _

_ People could be hurt if we do _ , Ororo countered,  _ Things could go very wrong. Someone could be killed. _

_ Someone could be killed if we do nothing, _ Kurt said,  _ This is, what is it called? A rock and a hard place. _

_ We could put it to a vote _ , Jean said,  _ And like they said, if someone wants to back out, they can. _

_ No. _ This came from Scott,  _ We’re a team. We do this as a team. We vote. I vote we do this. We have to. They’re going to do this with or without us. They need our help. _

_ Scott’s right _ , Jean said, her resolve filtering over to the rest of them,  _ I vote yes. _

_ I’m in,  _ Peter said,  _ Chances are my dad is in on this. Gotta watch his back. _

Kurt bit his lip, feeling Ororo’s indecision carry over into all of their brains. Taking a deep breath, Kurt made his decision.  _ I vote yes _ , he said, wincing inwardly,  _ We must. We must protect the school. Even if it costs us. _

That left Ororo. The vote was already four to one, but she could still back out on her own if she wanted. Fool was the man who tried to make Storm do something she didn't want to do.

_ No one will blame you if you don't want to _ , Jean told her gently.

Ororo broadcasted her annoyance,  _ I will, _ she said,  _ If only to look after all of you. _

Kurt breathed a sigh of relief. Having Ororo on their side would greatly increase their chances of success. Kurt admitted (in a more private part of his brain) that he had something of a crush on her.

“We’ll do it,” Scott said, standing tall and leader-like, “We’re all in agreement.”

“Are you now?” the Professor looked a little amused, despite the dark circles under his eyes. He’d probably guessed what they had been doing in their heads, “I’m glad to hear it, as we’ll need all of your help.”

“Tell us what we need to do.” Scott looked determined. It was a good look on him.

“We know that our watchers have a target in mind, but we have no idea who that target is.” Mystique leaned over the desk, one hand on the back of the Professor’s chair and the other on the desk, “So I go out posing as different students, acting as a decoy and hoping they take the bait. When they strike, that’s when we try and capture one of them.”

“We’re setting a trap,” Jean said, “But we don't know what bait they’re after?”

“That's the main issue,” the Professor said, “We’ve compiled a list of likely targets, but honestly could be anyone in the school.”

“Which is why it's best that all of you are on board,” Mystique said, “Phoenix, we’re going to rely on your telepathy. Out of all of you, you stand out least from the crowd. You’re easy to miss, so you’ll be closest to me, connecting everyone with your telepathy.” She turned to Kurt, “Nightcrawler, you’ll be following behind, looking for anything suspicious. Stealth is your strong point.”

Kurt nodded, but Ororo frowned, “Kurt’s still not fully recovered from his wisdom teeth,” she pointed out, “He is not well enough even to train yet.”

Kurt’s tongue flicked against his will to one of the empty holes left behind from his removed teeth. The action stung and he winced, only just not bringing a hand up to rub his cheek. He was still on a soft food diet and taking heavy painkillers. Maybe he should sit out on principle?

“We’ve taken that into consideration, thank you Storm,” the Professor said, “Which is why he will be a non-combatant. Surveillance only.”

“You and Cyclops will be in charge of creating a distraction, should the need arise,” Mystique said, “As well as fighting if it comes to that.”

Scott and Ororo exchanged a glance, “We can do that.”

“And me?” Peter asked.

“Apprehension and crowd control. Once we’ve subdued a target, you will tie them up and sedate them. You’ll also remove any civilians from the area if the need arises.”

Peter nodded, “Can do, ma’am.”

Mystique snorted, but she’d long since given up on getting Peter to be anything but cavalier in his attitude, “Magneto also be on the mission with you, following somewhat behind. Unless it’s absolutely necessary, in which case you will be given a signal, leave the fighting to us,” she commanded, eyeing them sternly, “Under no circumstances will you join in the fight unless we give you the go ahead. Do I make myself clear?”

Her tone espoused all complaints, “Crystal, ma’am,” Scott answered for them.

The barest twitch of her lips gave Mystique’s pride away, “Good,” she said. She straightened, “For this mission, Cyclops will be leading, with Storm acting as second in command.”

In the weeks they’d been training as X-Men, Scott had shown that he was a natural leader, and Ororo had matched him. They acted well as counters to each other. Scott was quick with decisions and plans, and Ororo was there to keep him in check, offering counter arguments and pointing out flaws. Scott could be too impatient sometimes, while Ororo needed a push forward every now and again. They worked well together, and Kurt trusted them to make the best decisions for the team together.

“Our first mission is next week, but we’re going to run some drills. Report to the Danger Room at five hundred hours tomorrow. We’re not leaving anything to chance if we can help it,” Mystique said, “Dismissed.”

“Feel free to come and talk to me if you have any doubts,” the Professor said, smiling sadly at them, “Thank you all for doing this.”

They nodded and turned to leave the office. When they were some distance from the office, they stopped.

“So this is happening,” Peter said, shuffling his feet like he wanted to run off some steam.

“Are we certain we want to do this?” Ororo asked, crossing her arms. She didn't sound afraid, but calculating, “If something goes wrong, one of us could be killed. Or those men could attack the school.”

“They might attack the school anyway,” Jean pointed out, “There’s no way they just disappeared.”

Scott pressed his lips together, “We don't have much for options. You could see that they were going to do this whether or not we help them. It’s better that we help.”

Ororo sighed and crossed her arms, “I know, but I do not like it.”

Kurt flicked his tail, “If we do nothing and something happens, it will be our fault. We have to protect our friends. That’s why we are X-Men, isn’t it?”

Jean smiled at him, “Kurt’s right. We’re X-Men. We have to help.”

They all seemed to be in agreement, bolstered by the reminder of their vow. Scott clapped a hand on Kurt’s shoulder, smiling at him. Kurt smiled back and felt a little less afraid. They could do this. If they were together, they could do this.

“Hey, there you are,” Dr. McCoy called, trotting down the hall towards them, “I was hoping to catch you. I wanted to talk to you.”

“We’ve decided to go through with the mission,” Jean told him, probably gleaning the question from his mind, “All of us.”

Dr. McCoy frowned, clearly unhappy with the idea. Kurt felt the fear bubble up again, “I see,” he said simply, “Well, I have some things for you in that case. Come with me.”

They followed Dr. McCoy to his lab, “I have some trackers for you to use, just in case something goes wrong,” he explained, “Plus, I’ve modified your battle suits to be more streamlined, so you can wear them under regular clothes.”

“Nifty,” Peter said, looking over the worktable and their suits laid out on them. He picked up his uniform, “It’s lighter than it was.”

“It took me a while to figure out how to make a material that’s durable enough to withstand your top speed, light enough not to weigh you down, and won’t heat up with friction all at once,” Dr. McCoy explained. He picked up a headset, “Scott, this is for you.”

“New specs?” Scott inquired, reaching out to take them. He took off his regular glasses, eyes shut tight, and popped the other set on, “Nice. A bit weighty.”

“There’s a security strap,” Dr. McCoy said, reaching over to secure it to Scott’s head, “How does it fit?”

“Snug, good,” Scott said, “I like them.”

“They also come with a setting that allows you to refine your optic beams, allowing for more precision work. Instead of blasting something apart, you should be able to cut it cleanly in half. With practice of course,” Dr. McCoy said.

“Awesome. Thanks Dr. McCoy,” Scott said, fiddling with the dials on the side.

Dr. McCoy smiled at them, then his face turned serious, “I want you to know that I don’t agree with the plan,” he said, “But it’s not up to me. The Professor’s right, even though I don't like it. I want you all to be protected out there.”

Kurt glanced at the others, then back at Dr. McCoy, “We understand sir, Danke.”

They filed out to go test out their new suits, but Kurt lingered behind, “Dr. McCoy?” he called, timid, “Can . . . do you need to talk?” Kurt wince internally.

Dr. McCoy raised a furry brow, “Do  _ you _ need to talk?” he asked.

Kurt’s tail swished behind him so hard he nearly knocked something off of another work bench. He glanced out the door, watching his friend’s backs retreat.

_ Stay and talk if you need to Kurt _ , Jean said in his head,  _ It’s alright, you can catch up. _

Kurt smiled at her back and turned back to Dr. McCoy, shutting the lab door, “I’m nervous about this mission,” he admitted.

Dr. McCoy set down the sensor he was tinkering with, “You know you’re allowed to back out if you want,” he said.

Kurt shook his head, “I want to do it, I’m just afraid,” he said, crossing the room and sitting down next to Dr. McCoy on the bench, “I cannot leave my friends. This house, these people, they are my family now. I must protect them, even if I am scared.”

Dr. McCoy smiled down at Kurt and put his arm around his shoulders, pulling him close, “That’s very brave of you Kurt,” he said, “I’m proud of you.”

Warmth curled in Kurt’s stomach, and he smiled up at Dr. McCoy. He pressed into his side, laying his head on his furry shoulder. Dr. McCoy smiled and rubbed his back.

“You’ll be okay,” he said, “We’ll keep you safe.”

“Danke,” Kurt said, wishing that he could rest his head on Dr. McCoy’s lap. He’d always wanted to rest his head on someone’s lap, but Margali had never allowed it.

Instead, he stayed close to Dr. McCoy for a while longer. His friends would wait for him.

* * *

 

“So when is your ultrasound?” Erik asked, sidling up to Wanda as she was fixing herself some tea in the kitchen.

“Tomorrow,” Wanda answered, taking a sip, “It’s in town. Dr. McCoy’s a great doctor, but he’s not an obgyn, and I want to be sure, you know?”

“Of course. I’m coming along,” Erik said with a nod.

Wanda resisted the urge to sigh, “I don’t need you to hold my hand.”

“It’s not that,” Erik said, putting his hand on her arm, “We’re still in a state of emergency. No one goes out alone.”

“Yeah sis,” Peter said, appearing by her shoulder and reaching to take a sip of her tea, “For all we know, you could be the target.”

“I haven’t even been in the country for years, how could I be the target?” Wanda asked incredulously, “I’ve been off the radar since I was nineteen, they couldn’t even know about me.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Erik said sternly, “No one goes out alone.”

Wanda was about to protest again, but Erik clutched her hands desperately, “Please Schatzi, I can’t lose you,” he pleaded, eyes tortured.

Wanda bit her lip, suddenly feeling awful. She’d been living on her own for eleven years, so her sense of independence often overruled her common sense. This wasn’t just about her anymore either, she had to think about her child(ren) now.

“You can’t come along,” Wanda said, “You’re still wanted. If anyone gets too close, they might recognize you.”

“Most people, when they think of Magneto, think of the helmet,” Erik said, “I know how to disappear in a crowd.”

“Not in an office though,” Peter pointed out, “You could probably pass through a crowd without being noticed, but sitting in an office?” he shook his head, “Wanda’s right. You can’t go.”

Erik grumbled, “Someone needs to be with you,” he insisted.

“I’ll be there,” Peter said, “And I could probably rope one of the other X-Men to come along if you’re still worried.”

Erik relaxed a fraction, “Alright,” he said, “Please be careful.”

Wanda nodded, “I promise to be careful. I’ll even stop by the craft store for your knitting stuff while I’m in the city.”

Erik smiled, “Thank you, that’s very thoughtful,” he said. He pulled them both into a hug; Wanda hummed, pleased, though she noticed Peter roll his eyes even as he leaned into the embrace.

“I can’t lose either of you,” Erik said, “Please be safe.”

“We’ll be fine,” Wanda promised, “Nothing will happen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked that chapter! I certainly had fun writing it. Now I have to go eat dinner with 15 other people (my family is very large).


	16. Opportunities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still at home with the family, so I've got plenty of time to write. I'm still surprised with how quickly I got this part written, especially with how long this chapter turned out to be.
> 
> I'm still open for commissions if you want to commission me. More info here ->http://misha-teaparty.tumblr.com/post/154950861098/fanfic-commissions-so-i-can-afford-to-keep-my-cat

Peter wandered the halls at a slow (for him) pace, looking around for the other X-Men. He needed to find someone to go along with him to Wanda’s ultrasound that afternoon. They were all still busy, but Mystique had to let them go with his sister, right? She couldn’t make them stay in the house, that wasn’t her call.

Finally, Peter spotted the others, on their way to the Danger Room for another training session (Peter was always late to them anyway, but he had an excuse this time. He spotted Kurt and Jubilee with them, and a lightbulb went off in his head.

“Hey Kurt!” Peter called, zipping down the hallway to appear at the blue mutant’s shoulder, “You’re still off training because of your teeth, right?”

Kurt, having been startled by Peter’s sudden appearance into leaping into a surprised Scott’s arms, blinked at him, “J-ja?”

“Great!” Peter grinned, “You can come along with me to Wanda’s ultrasound.”

“O-okay,” Kurt said, slowly untangling himself from Scott (who looked distinctly unimpressed).

Peter smiled brightly and turned to Jubilee, “Why don’t—”

“I’m coming too!” Jubilee exclaimed, “I haven’t been downtown in ages!”

“Last week is not ages,” Jean pointed out.

Jubilee shrugged, “Is for me. You guys want anything from downtown while I’m there?”

“We’re going for an ultrasound, not shopping,” Peter said.

Jubilee rolled her eyes, “Don’t bullshit me, Wanda told me she wanted to go to the craft store for your dad. The craft store is in the mall, and the mall is for shopping. So, who wants what?” she turned back to the group.

Ororo, not missing a beat, pulled out a scrap of paper, “The prices are listed as well,” she said, “I just have to go to my room and get you the money.”

“I’d like some new books, if you stop by the store,” Jean said, “I can write down the titles for you. Oh! The new Dazzler album came out, so that too.”

Scott shrugged, “Nothing comes to mind,” he said, “I guess there was a jacket I saw last time that I didn’t get. If you want to get it for me, I wouldn’t say no.”

Jubilee rolled her eyes, “Alright then. Everyone write it down on here and I’ll get it for you. Does everyone know the prices?”

Peter tapped his foot as the others worked things out. They didn’t have to leave for another hour, but he was always impatient.

“What are all of you doing?” Mystique called, walking up to them, “You were all supposed to report for training five minutes ago.”

“Kurt and Jubilee are coming with me to my sister’s ultrasound,” Peter explained.

“Is that right?” Mystique raised an eyebrow, “And you didn’t think I’d like to know before hand?”

“Well, Kurt’s still not training with the others and Jubes isn’t an X-Man anyway,” Peter shrugged, “And it’s not like you’re going to keep me from being with my twin sister for her ultrasound.”

Mystique stared down at Peter, her intense yellow eyes looking straight through his flippant attitude and into his soul. It was insanely creepy when she did that, “Indeed,” she finally said, “Be careful and tell the Professor where you’re going. Go to the ultrasound and straight back, don’t dawdle in town. No side stops for shopping.” This last sentence she directed at Jubilee, who looked like she wanted to complain, but knew better than to do it to her face.

“Sounds great,” Peter said, knowing full well that they were going to stop in town no matter what anyone said. Jubilee was a girl on a mission.

If she could sense the insincerity in them, Mystique didn’t show it, “Dismissed,” she said, “The rest of you, come on. You have training to do.”

Peter let out a breath of relief as she led the remaining X-Men into the bowels of the school for training, while Kurt and Jubilee stayed behind with him, “So? What are we waiting for? Let’s go!” Jubilee exclaimed, excited.

“We have to go get Wanda and talk to the Professor,” Peter said, “I’m not that irresponsible.”

“Will it be safe with only us?” Kurt asked, “Maybe we should have a teacher along?”

“Oh come on, the three of us should be enough,” Jubilee said, “You two are X-Men and I’ve been spying on your training sessions. Plus, Wanda is a super badass with reality powers. We’ll be fine.”

Kurt’s tail swished nervously, “Maybe we should ask Dr. McCoy along, if he’s not busy.”

Jubilee groaned, but Peter shrugged, “Doesn’t hurt to ask,” he said.

A quick trip later found them in Dr. McCoy’s lab, “I don’t think I can right now,” the large furry scientist said, “I’m pretty busy right now and I don’t have the time.”

“Well that’s a shame,” Jubilee said, not even trying to hide her glee, “We’ll just let the Professor know that we’re heading out and be on our way.” She was actively dragging Kurt away now.

“Be careful!” Dr. McCoy called after them.

“Now come on,” Jubilee insisted, tugging Kurt along, “Let’s tell the Professor, get your sister, and then  _ go _ .”

“You’re really eager to go out, aren’t you?” Peter had no trouble keeping pace with Jubilee as she trotted through the halls.

“It’s been  _ weeks _ ,” Jubilee groaned, “I’m going nuts in here. I need to get out.”

“We could ask another teacher to come along,” Kurt offered weakly.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” Jubilee said, practically skipping as they came to the Professor’s office.

Peter rolled his eyes and knocked on the door. They waited for a second for the Professor to answer them before slipping their heads through the door, “Hey, Prof,” Peter said, “I need to take Wanda to her ultrasound in town. Kurt and Jubilee are going to come along so we have enough people for a safe group.”

The Professor looked up from his papers, looking quite tired, “Hm? Oh yes, Wanda’s ultrasound,” he said, sitting back in his chair and rubbing his eyes, “Kurt and Jubilee? Did you ask one of the staff along?”

“We asked Dr. McCoy, but he’s busy,” Peter said, “Wanda and I are both twenty six, we don't need an adult along.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Xavier said, “Alright, but don’t stay out long. Actually, run back to Hank and ask him if he has any trackers ready. Just in case.”

“Will do, thanks!” They’re back down the hall a moment later. Peter gave Jubilee and Kurt the job of going back to the lab for the trackers while he collected his sister.

“Got everything figured out?” Wanda asked, shrugging into a sweater. The summer was long gone by now.

“Yup,” Peter answered, quickly rifling through her bag and pockets to make sure she didn’t miss anything, “We just have to wear some trackers that McCoy cooked up in his lab.”

“I see.” Wanda rolled her eyes at him for going through her person, but she tolerated it for the moment. She’d become used to Peter being too impatient to ask her to check everything and just doing it himself, “Who’d you get to come along with us?”

“Kurt and Jubilee,” Peter answered, “Not the biggest powerhouses, but they can hold their own.”

Wanda hummed, “Jubilee isn’t trained, is she?”

“No, but she’s scrappy as hell,” Peter said, “I’ve seen her get into fights. She fights dirty.”

Wanda laughed, “Sounds terrifying,” she said.

Peter huffed, “You laugh, but you haven’t seen her throw down. She bites man,  _ bites _ .”

“Are you all ready to go?” Erik came around the corner, holding Wanda’s coat in one hand and several scarves draped over his other arm, “Are you going to be warm enough in just a sweater?”

Wanda rolled her eyes, “I’ll be fine.” She turned to Peter, “He’s been trying to get me to wear my winter coat for twenty minutes.”

“I just don’t want you to get cold,” Erik said, bordering on huffy, “It’s windy out today. You don’t want to get a cold while pregnant.”

“Oh my God.” Wanda threw up her hands and plucked a scarf from his arm, “If I wear this, will you stop worrying?”

“No, but it will temporarily keep me from pestering you,” Erik said, “I’m never going to stop worrying about you.”

Wanda rolled her eyes again and tossed the scarf around her neck, “Fine.” She grabbed Peter by the arm and started dragging him away, “Let’s go before he brings out the hats and mittens.”

“Peter, take a scarf too!” Erik called, tossing a dark grey scarf at their retreating backs.

Peter only just managed to catch it, “We’ll be back before sunset!” he shouted over his shoulder as he looped the scarf around his neck.

“Be careful!” There was no tremor in Erik’s voice or anything like that, but Peter could feel the anxiety in his words.

Peter squashed down his own anxiety. They were going to be fine.

* * *

 

“Here.” Dr. McCoy handed them four tiny trackers, “These emit a small psionic field, so they can be tracked by telepathy, so they can’t be blocked or detected by traditional means.”

“Cool,” Jubilee said, taking one of the trackers and turning it over in her hands. It was a bit bulky, about the size of a compact, shaped like a slightly lopsided egg, but easily slipped into a pocket.

“How do they work?” Kurt asked, taking one.

Dr. McCoy reached over and pressed a button on the side, “One press to activate, two to deactivate,” he explained, “Leave them activated while you’re out.”

“Alright,” Kurt said, putting the device in his pocket. Dr. McCoy grabbed his wrist, tightly, but not enough to hurt.

“Promise me you’ll keep it on you at all times,” he begged, “If something happened to you, I—” he stopped, eyes darting to Jubilee, who was watching them intently, “Just be careful, please.”

Kurt stared up into Dr. McCoy’s eyes, trying to decipher the emotion swimming there, “I promise,” he vowed.

“Good,” Dr. McCoy said, breathing out a sigh of relief. He coughed and stepped back a pace awkwardly, “You too Jubilee. You need to have it on you all the time.”

“I will, I promise,” Jubilee said, giving them a calculating look. Kurt felt suddenly exposed under her gaze.

The tension broke when Wanda and Peter both appeared at the door, “Are we ready to go?” Peter called.

“We’re ready,” Jubilee said, tossing them both the other two trackers.

Dr. McCoy gave them a quick rundown of how to use them, “That should be everything,” he said, “Be safe. If you see anything suspicious, get out of there immediately.”

Wanda nodded, “Peter will grab me and Kurt will grab Jubilee,” she said, “We’ll be fine.”

With a few more warnings and ‘be safe’s, the four of them finally left the school, borrowing a car from the garage. The red convertible was the only car left over from before the explosion, but they opted for a more nondescript car, both to keep them from being spotted on the road and for the trunk space (Jubilee was getting that shopping done for everyone).

“So, what do you guys think?” Peter asked over his shoulder, “Twins or not?”

“You mean the baby?” Kurt questioned, wincing as Wanda leaned over and punched Peter in the shoulder. Should she be allowed to do that while he was driving, “You think it might be twins?”

“It runs in the family,” Wanda explained, “Plus I’m pretty big for how far along I am. I’m still only in the beginning of the second trimester.”

“Sounds like it could be twins,” Jubilee leaned over the seat to peer at Wanda’s belly, “I vote twins.”

Peter fist pumped, causing Wanda to roll her eyes, “It doesn’t really matter aside from the fact that I’ll have to get double of everything.”

“Baby shopping!” Jubilee exclaimed excitedly, “We should do some baby shopping while we’re in town!”

“No, no more shopping, we’re already making too many stops as it is,” Peter said, “We’re not even supposed to be making stops at all.”

Wanda raised an eyebrow at him, “Since when are you Mr. Responsible?”

“Since you’re the pregnant runaway,” Peter said, making her laugh, “But seriously, we’re already pushing it. We stop at the mall for a few things, but that’s it. I don’t want to tempt fate.”

“Fine,” Jubilee pouted, “No getting side tracked. Just the stuff that everyone wrote down.”

“Exactly,” Peter said, “We stay together. No one goes anywhere alone.”

“Right,” Wanda said, “Though I think they’ll only let one other person into the ultrasound room.”

“The waiting room isn’t so far away,” Peter said, “We’ll just be careful.”

Kurt curled his tail around his waist and rested it on his lap, running his hands over it, resisting the urge to twist it in his hands, “We promised to be careful,” he said.

“And we will be,” Jubilee said, leaning over in her seat and resting her head on Kurt’s shoulder, “Nothing’s going to happen to us.”

* * *

 

The obgyn’s waiting room was just what you’d expect; outdated, slightly yellowed posters ranging from the progression of a pregnancy to the anatomy of the female reproductive system were taped over cheery wallpaper that was starting to crack and split in places. Plastic chairs held women in various states of pregnancy, ranging from young first time mothers, to mothers nearing their forties holding unruly toddlers, and a few boyfriends and husbands nervously jittering in their seats.

The four of them were the odd group out, though the other patients seemed to be staring at Kurt more than than the rest of them. Kurt seemed unfazed by it, so Wanda put it out of her mind. Kurt and Jubilee were the youngest in the room, but Wanda guessed that some of these mothers were as young as twenty, freshly married and eager to give their husbands sons to carry on the family name.

_ Don’t be so jaded _ , Wanda scolded herself,  _ It’s none of your business. _

“Is this your first one?” a curious voice rang out from her left. Wanda glanced over to see a woman maybe her age, her huge belly protruding from under her breasts like she had a basketball under her shirt.

“Um, yes,” Wanda said, surprised that she was being spoken to. The other patrons seemed to be giving them a wide berth.

“Oh how sweet,” the woman said, “This will be my third.” She ran a gentle hand over the swell of her belly.

Wanda hummed, “Jury’s out on whether this is one  _ and _ two,” she said, elbowing her brother. Peter glared at her, but kept up his conversation with Kurt on his other side.

“You think it could be twins?” the woman asked, smiling brightly.

“It runs in the family,” Wanda said with a shrug, “I’m a twin myself.”

“How lovely,” the woman said, “You and your husband must be excited.”

Wanda tried not to grit her teeth, “I’m not married,” she said.

The smile faded from the woman’s face, “Oh,” she said, “Your boyfriend then?”

Wanda shook her head, “I’m doing the whole single mom thing,” she said.

The woman looked a little uncomfortable now. She glanced at Peter, obviously wondering after their relationship. Wanda hoped that this lady got the message and left her alone. She hated the stares she got as a single pregnant woman almost more than the stares she got as a mutant.

Wanda was saved from the awkward situation when the nurse called her name. She practically jumped out of her seat, dragging Peter along with her, leaving Kurt and Jubilee in the waiting room.

“Mrs. Maximoff?” the nurse asked her as they reached her.

“ _Miss_ Maximoff, actually,” Wanda said, not wanting to rehash this.

Thankfully, the nurse, a middle aged woman with a stout and portly frame, didn’t seem fazed by Wanda’s marital status, “This way please,” she said, leading them down a hall, “Doctor Davis will be with you shortly.”

The nurse left shortly after that. Wanda laid back on the table and waited for the doctor to come and finally get this over with. Peter sat in the little plastic chair off to the side, looking relaxed aside from the steady bounce of his leg.

“Do you think the baby’s healthy?” he asked suddenly, “I mean, do you think everything’s okay?”

Wanda smiled, “I think I would know if something was wrong,” she said, “I’m pretty sure the baby is just fine.”

Peter managed a smile, “You’re probably right. I guess I’m nervous to be an uncle.”

Wanda snorted, “How do you think I feel? I’m going to be a mom.”

Peter threw back his head and laughed, “Yeah, I’m still having a hard time imagining you as a mom.”

“Well, in a few months, you won’t have to imagine anything,” Wanda said.

Peter laughed again just as the door clicked open and Dr. Davis walked in. He was friendly, though brisk in his manner. He was also refreshingly non-condescending, and didn’t assume that Wanda was married (or that Peter was the father, which had happened a few times). After asking Wanda a few questions, he instructed her to lie down on the table and lift her shirt.

Wanda sucked in a breath as the gell hit her stomach, “Fuck that’s cold,” she said.

Dr. Davis chuckled, “Sorry, it’s always like that.” He lowered the wand to her abdomen.

“Last chance, place your bets for twins,” Peter chimed in. Wanda was sorely tempted to zap him.

As the image on the screen came to life, Wanda’s breath caught in her throat. Dr. Davis wiggled the wand around and a tiny little flicker came on screen. A second later, another flicker came into view next to the first.

“You’ve got good instincts,” Dr. Davis said, “It’s twins.”

“Wow,” Peter breathed, as transfixed by the screen as she was. He poked her arm, “Told you.”

“Can it,” Wanda grumbled, pinching him without looking.

Dr. Davis printed out a picture for her, gave her a list of prenatal vitamins to take, and answered a few more questions. Wanda left the office feeling light and floaty. Peter wrapped an arm around her shoulders and squeezed.

“So, what’s next?” he asked, grinning ear to ear.

Wanda shrugged, “I guess we tell Dad, and go from there.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Peter said. They came back into the waiting room and were immediately set upon by Jubilee, eager for good news.

“So? Everything’s okay?” she asked.

Wanda smiled, “Everything’s perfect.”

* * *

 

They debated for a while whether or not to actually go do the shopping, but Jubilee was insistent. They finally agreed to stopping for an hour at the mall, just to pick up the things Jubilee had promised the others. In the end, they had enough time left over to stop by the craft store for Erik.

“See, nothing bad happened,” Wanda said, sorting through a bin filled with different coloured balls of yarn.

“Fine,” Peter grumbled, “But we should get going soon.”

Wanda rolled her eyes, “Yeah yeah, I just need some needles and a few more balls of yarn,” she said, “Besides, you were the one who said you wanted to learn how to knit.”

“I did say that,” Peter said, sliding up beside his sister to look into the bin, “I guess I should pick out some yarn for a blanket or something.”

Despite his attitude, Wanda could tell that Peter was really excited to learn how to knit. He was going to bond with his dad and make something nice for his sister at the same time. Peter made self-deprecating jokes all the time and had an annoyingly flippant attitude, but he cared deeply for the people in his life.

As Wanda was ringing in her purchases, Peter was still sorting through the yarn, having roped Jubilee and an unfortunate clerk into a discussion about colours and textures. Wanda rolled her eyes and started walking for the entrance.

“Wanda!” Kurt called, trotting after her, “We shouldn’t go too far.”

“We’re fine,” Wanda said, stopping a few feet from the entrance, “We can still see them in the store.” She pointed and indeed, they could still see Peter and Jubilee talking with the clerk.

Kurt’s tail swished behind him, clearly uncomfortable. Wanda took pity on him, “Alright, we’ll go back inside, worry wart.” She ruffled his hair affectionately.

They started walking back towards the store. They were about five feet from the entrance when it happened. It was so fast that Wanda hardly had time to process what happened. A man, a normal looking man in a jean jacket and baseball cap, walking casually past them pulled a billy club from his coat and lashed out. He struck Kurt in the side of the face, and the blue boy dropped immediately, crying out in pain. Wanda’s eyes widened and she took one step towards him. Something pricked the side of her neck, and an icy feeling rushed through her veins. The last thing she was aware of as she began to fall backwards was the sound of her brother screaming.

Then everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, that's not good.


	17. Aftermath of the Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to school and back home in Montreal. I'm really glad to be home in the city. I love my family and the holidays, but they can not be over fast enough.
> 
> Anyway, here's a new chapter for you guys.

Charles was in his private study with Erik when the news came in. They had decided to have a game of chess shortly after Wanda and the others left to help take Erik’s mind off of his worries. He’d just been starting to relax into the overstuffed chair across from Charles, smiling warmly at him in that way that made his stomach flutter with traitorous butterflies.

But then Hank had burst into the room, eyes wild with panic and fur standing on end. Charles felt those butterflies shrivel and die as his stomach turned to ice as he frantically delivered the news. Wanda had been taken, Peter and Kurt were both injured, and Jubilee was in fits with a mix of guilt and shock.

No sooner than the news hit their ears did every piece of metal in the room shudder dangerously. A lamp crumpled with a burst of glass and a shower of sparks. Erik’s mind was a vortex of rage and pain, spinning faster and faster until it was basically screaming into Charles head.

_ Erik! _ He called,  _ Erik calm down! _

_ My babies, _ Erik was starting to panic, his breath started coming out short,  _ They took them again. I knew this would happen. They’ve taken my babies! _

_ “Erik!” _ Charles called, both out loud and telepathically,  _ We can’t panic now! They need you! Peter and Wanda need you! _

In an instant, Erik snapped out of it and was on his feet, “Where are they now?” It came out like a snarl.

“In the infirmary,” Hank answered.

Erik took off, leaving Charles and Hank to follow. They arrived maybe a minute after Erik had burst in. He was leaning over the bed that held Peter. Peter’s shirt was gone, and there were white bandages wrapped around his stomach, a hint of pink showing through on one side. Kurt was in the next bed over, sitting up and cradling an ice pack to his face, tears streaming down his cheeks. Jubilee was curled up on the last bed in the row, sobbing loudly and thrashing around.

Hank made a b-line for Kurt, which left Jubilee to Charles. He reached out with his telepathy first, curling around her frantic thoughts with tender care.

_ It’s alright Jubilation _ , he soothed, finally getting to her bedside and taking her hand,  _ You’re safe here. No one can hurt you. _

_ It’s all my fault _ , Charles managed to decipher from the sickly rush of thoughts careening through the girl’s head,  _ I pushed to go out. It’s my fault she got taken. _

_ It is not your fault _ , Charles soothed, trying to get her to calm down,  _ There’s nothing that you did or could have done that would have stopped them. Their plan was to take Wanda all along and you couldn’t have stopped them. _

It took several minutes to get Jubilee calmed down enough where he was able to gently suggest she get some sleep. The young girl fell into a fitful sleep, and Charles felt guilty for forcing her to sleep, but he needed to talk with the others and start searching for Wanda. He tucked a blanket around Jubilee’s shoulders to keep her warm and turned to the others.

Hank was still sitting with Kurt, the boy practically in Hank’s lap as he rubbed his back and comforted him. Erik was talking to Peter in a low voice, stroking his hair out of his face with a gentleness that someone who didn't know him might think was out of place on the terrorist.

_ We need to come up with a plan _ , Charles projected to them both. He wished they could spend time with these poor traumatized children, one of whom just lost his sister, but they needed to act now, or they might lose Wanda forever.

Erik glanced up at Charles and gave him a nod of understanding, even though his eyes were shiny. He bent down and hugged Peter tightly, laying a kiss to his temple and whispering something to him. Hank lingered a while longer, rocking Kurt gently before slowly extracting him from his grip. They left the room with promises to return as soon as they could, trying not to look into their frightened eyes, lest they be tempted to stay.

The three of them made their way quickly down the halls. The other children were being shepherded to their rooms by the rest of the staff. The anxiety swirled through Charles’s mind, making his stomach turn over. Raven met them at the elevator; they all piled in and made their way down.

“So what do we do?” Raven asked, standing tall and straight with her chin down, like she was about to charge into battle.

“We track her,” Hank said, “She had a tracker on her. If they haven’t taken it, Charles should be able to track it with Cerebro.”

“And once we know where she is?” Erik’s tone suggested he knew exactly what he would do once he knew where his daughter was.

“If we can pin them down in transit, we do so,” Charles said, “But I have a feeling that we won’t catch them until they get to wherever they’re heading.”

It would be best to get them before they could arrive at where they were taking Wanda, but they had a head start of nearly an hour, and Charles would bet air travel. If that was the case, it would be too dangerous to go after them until they landed. It all depended on what sort of firepower these people had, something they still didn’t know. That was the most frustrating part of this whole thing; how much they didn’t know.

Charles waited for Cerebro to recognize him and open the door. He wheeled himself as fast as he could to the control panel, nearly crashing into it. Hank leaned over him and started flicking controls while Erik and Raven waited impatiently behind him.

Cerebro flickered to life and Charles began sifting through the minds of thousands. The trackers Hank had made operated on a telepathic ‘frequency’ that was unique, and one that hopefully the captured telepath wouldn’t be able to catch without knowing what exactly it was. Three trackers were activated, but they were all clustered in the school; Peter, Kurt, and Jubilee still had theirs on.

Another minute, and Charles finally found the other tracker. It was high in the sky, moving quickly; a helicopter probably, with the speed and height. It was traveling west, deeper into the central United States. Charles couldn’t get a hold of Wanda’s mind, which would make sense if she were drugged. There were other minds around her, but they were fuzzy somehow, like they were muffled.

“I found her, but I can’t grab the people who have her,” Charles said, “I think they have psionic blockers of some kind.”

“So what does that mean?” Erik growled, one hand grabbing the back of Charles’s chair in a white knuckle grip.

“It means I can’t make them turn around or land or pull information from their minds,” Charles said through gritted teeth, “Not without either straining myself or killing them.”

Erik grumbled something at that, but Charles ignored it. This was no time to get into an argument over killing people who were trying to harm them. He kept his focus on Wanda’s tracker, “I can still feel her tracker,” he said, “I’ll keep on it until we have a location. After that, we can form a strategy.”

Charles couldn’t see any of them nod, but he could feel the general sense of agreement, though some of it was grudging. He focused on keeping Wanda’s tracker in his sights. He couldn’t lose her, “It might be awhile before I find out where they’re headed, you don't need to stay.”

_ You can go back to your children _ , Charles thought, but he couldn’t project it while he was in Cerebro.

Hank shifted on his feet, “I’ll go back to the infirmary,” he said, “I need to get a better look at Peter’s wound.”

“I’ll start forming strategies for getting Wanda back,” Raven said, “We’re going to need some reconnaissance done to figure out what we’re up against.”

“I’ll stay.” Erik’s hand moved from the back of Charles’s chair to his shoulder, squeezing firmly, but not too tight, “Until we know where Wanda is.”

Charles reached over and patted Erik’s hand, saying nothing. Erik’s presence behind him was like a beacon of strength. For a moment he wondered what they might have accomplished if they had stayed together, rather than gone down separate paths.

* * *

 

Kurt wasn’t in his bed when Hank returned; he had gotten up to sit with Jubilee, who was awake again, but much more calm this time. She was still crying, but no longer in a fit. They both looked up as Hank came in, both pairs of eyes wet.

“Hey, everyone okay?” Hank asked softly.

Jubilee scrubbed her eyes, “No,” she sniffled, “I got Wanda kidnapped.”

“You did not,” Hank said, “None of you could have known what was going to happen.”

“But I pushed to stay in town and go shopping!” Jubilee wailed, fresh tears spilling down her raw cheeks, “If I had listened and done what you said she wouldn’t have been taken!”

Kurt leaned over and wrapped his arms around the distraught girl, his tail coming around to pat and rub her back gently, trying to soothe her. She buried her face into his shoulder and heaved big sobs, and Hank felt his heart clench for her.

“Hey now,” he said softly, “It’s not your fault. Something tells me that these people, whoever they are, would have done whatever was necessary to get to Wanda, whether or not she was in town or not. These people had been watching us, and they struck at the earliest opportunity they could.” Hank wasn't sure if he was making things better or worse, but Jubilee seemed to be calming marginally.

“Doc’s right,” Peter said, “I’ve been thinking about it, and I recognise the guy who stabbed me. He’s been following us at a distance for a while.” He ran his fingers over where his bandages were starting to go pink, “Today was just our lucky day.”

“You recognised the man who attacked you?” Hank asked as he walked over with fresh bandages, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Peter shrugged, “He didn’t seem like he was following us,” he said, groaning as he sat up so Hank could unwind the bandages from his torso, “He looked like a normal guy, and North Salem’s not an especially big community. I see a lot of people more than once.”

Hank let out a hum; so these guys, whoever they were, were trained to follow people without being noticed. They had to either be government or recruiting ex-government. So far no one had mentioned any accents, so probably American (or even Canadian) of some kind, or good at faking the accent.

Hank finished unwrapping the old bandages. His main focus earlier had been getting the wound stitched up and to stop the bleeding, so he hadn’t looked at it very closely. The wound was was shallow, made with a small blade with a single edge, more like a slice than a stab. The wound was carefully made to cause pain, but not kill, which only bolstered Hank’s theory that these people were professional.

But if they didn’t want mutants dead, what did they want them for?

Shaking that thought from his mind, Hank set about checking the stitches. His work from earlier had pulled a little (with how distracted he’d been, he wasn’t surprised),which had caused them to bleed through the bandages, and he’d have to redo them. Cursing himself, Hank grabbed his supplies and began to fix the wound properly.

“How’s the pain?” Hank asked as he spread numbing cream around the skin.

“Manageable,” Peter grunted, “I had worse than this when I broke my leg.”

“I can give you something to take the edge off,” Hank offered.

Peter shook his head, “I want to keep a clear head,” he said.

Hank paused in his work for a moment, “You won’t be running off to go get your sister until we know what we’re dealing with,” he said sternly, “And even then, you’ll have to wait for this to heal.”

“I heal quick, and I am  _ not _ letting my sister stay in their hands,” Peter growled.

“No one is saying that we will,” Hank said calmly, “But we can’t just rush in without thinking. We need a plan. Otherwise we’re just going to get someone killed.”

Peter grumbled, but didn’t seem like he would be running off anytime soon, so Hank let it be. He made a mental note to have some sedative on hand just in case. Peter’s metabolism ate through any medication or sedative quickly, so he was especially difficult to medicate.

Hank finished redressing the wound and gave Peter a shot of painkiller, “Try and get some rest. We’ll let you know if there are any developments,” he said as he turned to the next bed, which was empty still, “Kurt, can you come over here for a minute, I want to get a look at your jaw.”

Kurt untangled himself from Jubilee, who had calmed significantly, though she was still crying. He crawled up on the bed, holding himself a little stiffly. Hank gently ran his hand over the side of Kurt’s face, noting how it was still quite swollen, though not as much as it had been. It was hard to tell what the damage was just from looking, so there was the concern that it was broken.

“I’m going to warm up the X-ray machine,” Hank said, “Do you want some pain medication?”

Kurt shook his head, though even that movement was stilted. Hank noticed just then that there was blood at the corner of his mouth, “Kurt? Did your wisdom teeth sores open? Can you open your mouth for me?”

Kurt hunched his shoulders and made a pained noise, “Hurts,” he whimpered.

Hank laid a hand on his shoulder and rubbed soothingly, “I know it does, but I need to look into your mouth to get a look at how your wisdom teeth wounds are.”

Kurt’s tail lashed a little, but he slowly opened his mouth. Hank listened closely for any sounds of grinding or cracking, which would signal a break. He couldn’t hear anything, even with his enhanced hearing, so it was possibly a fracture instead. Grabbing his penlight, Hank peered into Kurt’s mouth. The wisdom teeth wounds on the side that had been hit were oozing blood slightly, but not enough to be a concern.

What was concerning was that these people knew to strike Kurt in the jaw to incapacitate him.

“It looks okay,” Hank said, turning off his light, “Your jaw might be fractured though, so I still want to do the X-ray.”

Kurt slowly closed his mouth and nodded. Hank handed him a glass of water, “Rinse out your mouth and spit into here.” He handed Kurt the trash bin, “I’ll be right back.”

Hank went to the X-ray room and started up the machine. He took a few steadying breaths, trying to wrap his head around the last hour and a half. He always tried to be the planner, thinking of every outcome and preparing for them all, but it always seemed like he was blindsided at every turn no matter what he did. First Apocalypse, and now this. Sometimes he felt like his life was coming apart at the seams.

Pulling himself together, Hank finished calibrating the machine and went to fetch Kurt. A few minutes later, they determined that Kurt’s jaw had a hairline fracture, but it wouldn't require wiring or surgery, just a soft diet and painkillers (which Kurt was already doing for his teeth).

“You’ll be just fine,” Hank said, a little relieved himself. He didn’t want to think how horrid it would be to have to wire Kurt’s jaw shut.

Kurt nodded and managed a wobbly smile for a second. It faded and they stood there for a second. Hank worried that Kurt might start crying, but before he could ask what was wrong, Kurt leaned forward and rested his head on Hank’s chest, shoulders shaking with the effort to keep himself from crying.

Hank sighed and wrapped his arms around Kurt, holding him close, “You’re okay,” he said, pressing his cheek to the top of Kurt’s head, “You’re okay. It’s going to be okay.”

He wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince.

* * *

 

Mystique had come up with fifty possible strategies of attack by the time they all met up again. Everyone looked exhausted; Erik was tense as a bowstring, barely contained rage and pain, his eyes haunted by recent tragedies. There were deep purple bags around Charles’s eyes, and Mystique recognized the signs of him fighting off a telepathic headache. He wasn’t even pushing his chair, but letting Erik use his powers on it to move. Hank somehow looked worst of all, his fur standing up in places and flattened in others, like he’d been clutching at it and running his hands over it. His eyes were bloodshot, which contrasted sharply with the yellow of his irises, making him look slightly demonic. He looked like he’d been fighting off tears for hours.

There was no time for everyone to get rest just yet though, they had work to do.

“We know where they’ve taken Wanda,” Charles said, “She’s still in the US, which is great. I managed to get a little out of the guards, though not much through whatever blockers they’re wearing. They have some kind of facility where they’ve taken Wanda, so it’s unlikely that they’re going to move her again.”

“She’s in Colorado,” Erik supplied, “We looked up the coordinates. It’s a ghost town by the name of Ashcroft.”

“Well, there’s one mystery solved,” Mystique muttered, “Any idea what they have there?”

“It used to be a silver mine town, so I’m guessing whatever they have there, they have it underground in the old tunnels,” Charles said, “It’ll be difficult to get a close look.”

“So stealth will have to be our number one tool,” Mystique said, “I can lead a team to do reconnaissance to see if we can’t find some weak points.”

Charles nodded, “I trust you to make the best decisions,” he said, looking up at her. There was a quiet fondness in his eyes, though it was paired with a deep sadness.

Mystique decided not to think about it.

“Kurt and Peter are both out of commission for a while,” Hank said, “Peter especially, but I’m not comfortable sending Kurt out either.”

“Quicksilver and Nightcrawler are two of our best infiltrators,” Mystique pointed out, “How soon can they go back in the field?”

Hank pressed his lips together, clearly unhappy with her attitude, “It’s difficult to say for Peter, he heals at an accelerated rate. Normally I would say at least a month or two, but Peter might be healed in a matter of weeks.” He adjusted his glasses, “For Kurt on the other hand, it will take a month before his jaw is better. It’s a small fracture, but it could easily become a break if he jumps around too much.”

Mystique spared a thought for the boy, he must have been in a lot of pain, “Is there anything you could do to speed up the process?”

Now Hank glared, “I can do a lot of things, but I’m not a miracle worker. He’s going to need at least three weeks before he should do any kind of strenuous activity. More probably, since he’s still recovering from a lifetime of neglect and abuse,” he practically snarled.

Mystique bristled, feeling the accusation in Hank’s tone. If he was trying to imply that she was somehow responsible for Kurt’s neglect, he was sorely mistaken.

“Alright, let’s all calm down,” Charles said, stepping in before things could become ugly, “We should come up with some plans to move forward. Reconnaissance seems like a good starting point. Mystique?”

With a final glare in Hank’s direction, Mystique laid out some plans for getting close to the ghost town and seeing what was going on. She would lead the mission, and Phoenix and Storm would follow her.

“What about the Cyclops and the others?” Erik asked.

“The other two X-Men that would come in useful for this kind of situation are both out of commission for right now,” she explained, “Cyclops’ powers are too noticeable to be useful on a stealth mission like this. Neither he or Storm are good at blending into crowds, but I’m only taking Storm so she can provide cover. The weather in Colorado this time of year can be unpredictable. Fog or mist can provide an great cover for sneaking around, as well as rain to wash away tracks.”

“So Scott, Kurt, and Peter all stay behind for the time being,” Charles said, “Not ideal, but we don’t have much of a choice. Remember that this is reconnaissance only though. Under no circumstances are you to engage unless you have to.”

Mystique decided to ignore the (probably unintentional) jab at her methods. She knew better than he did about when was the time to run and hide and when was the time to fight.

They discussed a few more points and drew up a preliminary timetable (which Erik wasn’t pleased with; he wanted to strike as soon as possible and get his daughter back)., before deciding that there was no more they could do tonight. Charles bade them goodnight, Erik made his way back to the infirmary to be with Peter, and Hank disappeared to places unknown. Mystique was left to make a few more plans and study up on the terrain they would be working in.

I was almost dawn by the time she decided to call it quits and get some sleep. She would brief Jean and Ororo later in the morning, and then Mystique would move out soon after that. She’d find a place to hide in near enough to do recon, but far enough away that they wouldn't get spotted, then bring the two X-Men in to start the mission.

Plan firmly in place, Mystique made her way back to her room. She had excellent night vision, but she hardly needed it as the soft light of morning was already filtering through the windows. However, she still startled a little when she noticed Hank waiting for her outside her room.

“Kurt wanted me to tell you he was sorry he wouldn’t be able to help with the mission,” he said before Mystique could ask what he was doing here, “He’s very upset that he won’t be able to help.”

Mystique gritted her teeth; why did Hank feel the need to do this to her? Was he trying to punish her? Taunt her? She took a deep breath, “That’s very good of him. Tell him he can join the mission as soon as he’s ready.”

“As soon as he’s healed properly, I’ll clear him for duty,” Hank said, and he kept the bite out of his voice, but Mystique still felt the intended sting. He pushed off the wall and strode past her, and she could feel how tense he was just by watching him.

“I didn’t want to abandon him, you know,” she suddenly blurted, “It wasn’t—I didn’t want to…” she trailed off, unsure of what she wanted to say.

Hank paused, turning back to look at her, a strange expression on his face that Mystique couldn’t quite place, “You should tell him that,” he said eventually, then continued down the hall.

Mystique watched him disappear around the corner, then turned to go to her room. She’d need to be rested for the mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy.


	18. Thumbscrews

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's reading week finally, and I'll probably have more time to do some writing. We'll see if I get another chapter up before the week is out.

Wanda came to strapped to a table of some kind. She assumed she was strapped, because she couldn’t seem to move that well. Her first concrete thought was one of panic,  _ My babies! _ she thought frantically. She attempted to struggle, only to find that her whole body was numb and paralysed. Wanda was tempted to panic further, but forced herself to calm down.

_ Think _ , she commanded herself, recalling the words of her mentor,  _ Think before you act. Look around and assess the situation. _

Taking a deep breath, Wanda looked around as best she could. She could hardly move her head, but she managed to determine that she was in a lab of some kind. The light was dim, but the white walls and equipment at the edges of her vision were unmistakable. There were no windows or doors in her field of vision, and the air tasted stale and recycled, so they were most likely deep inside whatever building they were in.

Wanda took another breath, trying to figure out what to do. She couldn't move, but she hadn’t tried to use her powers, so that was perhaps an option. Closing her eyes, Wanda reached for her power, trying to call them to the surface. Her powers, however, seemed to be taking a nap, and didn't answer her call. Frustrated, Wanda let out a soft growl.

“So you are awake,” a voice came from somewhere above (behind?) her. Wanda let out a string of internal curses, berating herself for not noticing another person in the room.

Footsteps circled her until a face came into view on her left. It was that of a white man, mid fifties to early sixties, greyish hair that had probably been a light brown in his youth. He had a slight accent that sounded oddly familiar, but Wanda wasn’t able to place it just at the moment, being preoccupied as she was.

“I want to begin by reassuring you, you’re completely safe under my care,” the man said, “No harm will come to you or your child, so long as you cooperate with our benefactors. I am a scientist, not a torturer, and I wish to learn about you and your kind, not destroy you.”

“Coulda jus’ asked,” Wanda slurred, doing her best to glare at the man.

The man chuckled, “I suppose I could have,” he mused, “But we’re rather past that at this point. Now, I have a lot of work to do, so it’s best if you cooperate. Resistance is understandable, but unwise.”

“Go to hell,” Wanda snapped, reaching again for her powers. Once again, nothing.

The man sighed, “As I said, I understand the urge to resist, but you really should move past that as soon as you can. It will make your life that much more comfortable here.”

Wanda was about to go on a tirade about where he could stuff his ‘cooperation’ when a door slammed open somewhere to her left, “Dr. Muller, is it awake yet?”

“Dr.  _ Müller _ , if you please,” the man—Dr. Müller—said with the air of someone who had corrected a great many people on the pronunciation of his name, “And yes, Ms. Maximoff is awake. Speaking even.”

“Well, what the hell are you waiting around for?” the other man, a rough voice, booming and authoritative, snapped, “Get to work!”

The door slammed again and Dr. Müller sighed, “My kingdom for a supervisor with an ounce of patience,” he muttered. He turned his attention back to Wanda, “As I was saying, I really don’t have time for you to be uncooperative. I’ve been given license by my benefactors to be harsh with you, but I’d rather not have to resort to that. For both your and your child’s sake, please don't make me use drastic measures.”

Wanda wanted to resist, to tell this man not to bother trying to get her to participate with whatever farcical study he wanted to do on mutants, but it wasn’t just her lying prone on the slab. Her children slept in her belly, protected only by her flimsy skin. Any number of things could be done to her children, and paralysed and powerless as she was, she wouldn't be able to do a thing about it. She had to be smart, not proud.

“What do you want from me?” she asked, not willing to quite give in just yet.

Dr. Müller’s mouth twitched, as if sensing her weakening resistance, “Ms. Maximoff, my benefactors have been watching you for some time. You have a very unique ability, one that they believe can be utilized for great things. I too believe this, though I’d rather not spit in the face of God if I can,” he said, “The power to bend reality itself could be an incredibly versatile tool, if only you’ll allow us to cultivate it.”

“I’m not a tool,” Wanda snapped. So these people wanted to use mutants as tools, though she wasn't sure to what end.

“Of course not, my dear,” Dr. Müller said, clearly attempting to appease her, “But the fact remains that you can do incredible things, and my benefactors would very much like to know the full extent of your abilities. I myself am quite curious.”

“And what if I keep resisting?” Wanda growled, “What if I never cooperate?”

Dr. Müller stared down at her, a hard, calculating look, “Have you ever heard of stem cells?” he asked after a moment. When Wanda managed to shake her head, he continued, “They’re cells in the body that are undifferentiated. They can become any kind of cell in the body. They’re quite fascinating, and there is very promising research with them.  _ Mutant _ stem cells might open up a whole new field of study,” he paused, “There is, however, the tricky business of harvesting these cells. They’re not exactly common in the body, you see. One of the most common places to find them is in fetuses, which has a whole controversy attached to it.” He leveled her with a look, placing a hand on her belly, “Do you understand what I’m insinuating?”

Wanda understood perfectly fine. If she didn't do what they wanted, they would cut her open and take her babies to use them in some fucked up experiment. She broke into a cold sweat, and she could feel her face drain of colour.

Dr. Müller smiled, obviously catching on, “I trust you see the sense in cooperating with me now?”

Wanda nodded mutely, not trusting her own voice. Dr. Müller smiled wider, making Wanda feel sick just looking at him, “Good girl,” he gave her belly a pat and moved away, “The sedative should start wearing off soon, but you won’t be able to use your powers until we let you, so please don't try. You’ll only strain yourself. Rest up for a few minutes, I’ll be right here preparing.”

Wanda laid her head back down on the slab, fighting back tears. She vowed, the minute she could, she was going to cut Dr. Müller’s hands off for daring to touch her babies.

* * *

 

Erik didn't sleep that night, instead choosing to watch over Peter as the boy slept fitfully. He knew he probably needed to sleep, but he couldn’t let go of the creeping thought that someone would come for his remaining child while he wasn’t looking. Not an unfounded thought, in his opinion.

Hank had left to get some sleep hours ago, but Erik was wide awake, unable to close his eyes. He must have been a little dazed though, because he almost didn't notice when Peter woke up, pushing himself up onto his elbows and blinking blearily at him.

“Dad?” His voice was rough from sleep, “What are you doing here?”

Erik stood and walked over to the bed, smoothing back Peter’s disarrayed mop of silver hair, “How do you feel?” he asked, avoiding the question.

Peter smacked his mouth, “Thirsty,” he said. Erik immediately went to get him a glass of water, “Did Mystique and the others leave yet?”

“Not yet,” Erik said, returning with the glass and handing it to Peter, “They will soon though.”

Peter gulped the water down and set the glass aside, wincing when he pulled at his wound, “I really hope this heals quickly. I want to help.”

Erik pressed his lips together; unsure whether he wanted to smile or frown, “In time,” he said, “We’ll get her home soon.” And  _ kill _ whoever had the audacity to even  _ think _ that they could get away with this.

The two of them were quiet for a moment, not wanting to wake Kurt on the other bed (though it hardly mattered, Kurt was so doped up on painkillers that he’d sleep through an earthquake). Erik sat back down next to Peter’s bed and resumed his vigil. Peter tried to settle back into sleep, but he was too tense to drop off.

“I was right, by the way,” Peter said suddenly, wide awake.

“Hm? What about?” Erik asked.

“Wanda,” Peter said, “I was right about her baby. She’s having twins.”

“Is that right?” Erik asked, though inwardly his heart soared. Twin grandchildren, more family that he could call his own. At the same time, a ball of dread settled in the pit of his stomach at the thought of those unborn children being in the danger they were in alongside their mother.

“She had a photo printed of the ultrasound,” Peter said, “It’s in my pocket actually. She gave it to me to hold onto.”

Reading the implied meaning, Erik stood and went to where Peter’s jacket was hanging on a peg. All of Peter’s clothes aside from his jacket had been ruined by blood from the stab wound; even his socks and underwear were soaked in blood. Erik was glad they had been taken away and tossed into the hazardous waste bin. He’d had his fill of the sight of his family’s blood.

After a quick dig through the jacket pockets, Erik came up with the slightly crinkled photo. It was hard to make out any shapes in the black and white blobs, but Erik thought he saw two tiny heads swimming in amniotic fluid. He handed the photo to Peter who took it and turned it so he could see.

“There’s a little head there,” he pointed out, “And another one there. The photo really doesn’t do it justice, seeing it in real life is crazy awesome. You can see their little heartbeats going.”

“I’m sorry I missed it,” Erik said, sitting back down again. If he had been with them, he might have been able to stop Wanda from being taken.

“Next time,” Peter assured him, tucking the photo away under his pillow, “Hank said he’s gonna order an ultrasound machine for the school.”

“That would be good,” Erik said. It would negate the need to travel outside the safety of the school for things like that. Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters would become a fortress from which no one would need to leave and they could all be safe within its walls. No one would bother the children anymore, they could live in peace.

“We’re gonna have to figure out some sort of living arrangements. Twins are gonna need a lot of space,” Peter mused, sounding a little groggy now that he was more relaxed. His body needed sleep to heal, “Maybe she’ll get an apartment in town.”

Fear gripped Erik’s heart, nearly choking the breath from his chest, “There’s plenty of room in the school and the grounds. I’m sure we can arrange something for her.”

Peter furrowed his brows even as his eyes slipped closed, “She can’t stay here forever,” he said, “She’d hate that.”

_ Yes she can. She could learn to love it _ , Erik thought in a dark little corner of his mind. He wanted his children, his grandchildren, within reach at all times. He wanted to erect walls around them, keep the outside world at bay. Nothing good came from letting the outside world in.

Erik squashed that train of thought. As much as he wanted to protect his family from the world that had done nothing but take pieces out of Erik’s heart time and time again, he knew it was foolish to try and confine Peter and Wanda. They both needed their space, their freedom. What was a fortress but another prison if you didn’t want to be in it?

So he said nothing, and put his dream of a perfect little world, just for the people he loved, into a secure little box inside his heart, to be sighed over every once in awhile, when he indulged what could never be.

Peter finally dropped off back to sleep, just before it began to get light out. Mystique and the girls would be leaving soon. Erik stood and stretched the stiffness from his back and joints with a groan. He was getting old, he used to have no problem sitting for hours on end. Now his spine protested having sat up all night, and loudly let Erik know. He shook it off for now, he had more pressing matters to attend to.

Stopping one last time to pull Peter’s blanket up around the sleeping boy’s shoulders and bending to kiss his forehead, Erik turned and left the infirmary to see Mystique off on her mission.

* * *

 

“This sucks,” Scott grumbled, watching Jean pack a heavy duty canvas bag, “This  _ really _ sucks.”

“You’ve said,” Jean said distractedly, going over the list Mystique had given her. They would be camping out in the woods a lot, so she’d need the right supplies.

Scott grumbled from his spot on her bed, reclined but obviously tense, “I should be going along,” he said.

“You heard Mystique,” Jean said, finally glancing over at him, “Your powers are too destructive for subterfuge and recon. You need to sit this one out.”

Scott scowled, “Your powers are more destructive than mine. You obliterated Apocalypse with your brain.”

Jean closed her eyes for a moment, the memory of all of that power surging through her, burning her from her bones outward, setting her mind on fire, made her tremble a little. The sheer amount of power, seemingly endless, had been liberating, but also terrifying. What could she do with that power, if she were so inclined?

Opening her eyes, Jean turned back to Scott, “I’m a telepath before that,” she said, “That’s a little more subtle, and perfect for getting information out of people.”

Scott didn’t seem appeased, “I should go with you to protect you,” he insisted.

Jean felt a wave of irritation bubble up, “You just said I’m more powerful than you. And it’s not like I’m going alone. Ororo and Mystique are both capable of protecting me and themselves.” She turned with a swish of her hair, “We  _ don’t _ need a big strong man to tag along and protect us poor helpless females.”

“That isn’t what—!” Scott bristled, but stopped himself from making a bigger ass out of himself.

Jean sighed and took pity on him, “I know that’s not what you meant, but you're my boyfriend, not my keeper. You can’t act like this when we’re on a mission.”

“I know, I know.” Scott got up from the bed and stood in front of her, hands coming to rest on her hips, “I’m just . . . this whole thing  _ sucks _ .”

Jean felt the tension ripple off of him even without her telepathy. With a sigh, she stepped closer and rested her head on his shoulder, “I know. I’m worried too.”

Scott stayed tense for a minute before slowly wrapping his arms around her, holding her tight, “I just feel like I should be doing something,” he said, “Staying behind . . . I just feel  _ useless _ .”

“You’re not,” Jean said, “You have to stay and keep an eye on Peter and Kurt. And Jubilee. And the whole school. You’re the only X-Man staying behind who’s not out of commission. The school needs you in case something happens.”

“I guess,” Scott admitted reluctantly, “Still sucks.”

Jean smiled, “I know,” she said, “But it could suck a lot more.”

Images of Peter being brought it, bleeding from his side, Kurt unable to move for the pain in his jaw, and the heavy absence of Wanda flitted through her mind (and Scott’s too). It could definitely suck a whole lot more.

“I have to finish packing,” Jean said, pulling back from the embrace, “Mystique will be expecting me soon.”

“Want any help?” Scott offered, even though they both knew that she was mostly finished.

“Sure,” Jean said, turning back to her work, but tossing a smile over he shoulder, “You  _ do  _ know how to fold, don’t you?” she teased.

Scott huffed, “I’m not completely useless at housework,” he protested.

They spent the next few minutes flirting overtop Jean’s bag, moving a lot but getting very little work done. Prolonging the inevitable, but for a minute, it was nice to pretend they were normal teens, unencumbered by the realities of being mutants.

_ You have ten minutes left _ , the Professor’s voice drifted into their brains apologetically,  _ Finish saying your goodbyes and meet Mystique in the hangar. _

Jean’s throat closed, the gravity of the situation falling on her shoulders like a drenched blanket. She took a few deep breaths and turned to look up at Scott.

Scott’s brows were furrowed deeply, but he said nothing. She could tell that he was looking at her intently through his glasses, as though studying her (did he think he might never see her again? She didn’t dare look into his head to find out). Suddenly, he leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth, firmly but slowly. Jean let out a sigh and kissed back, tilting her head to deepen it.

They broke apart after a long moment, “For luck,” Scott whispered against her lips, not quite ready to pull away.

Jean said nothing, zipping up her bag with her powers and reaching up to stroke Scott;s face with one hand, “I’ll be careful, I promise,” she said.

“You better,” he said, and though he smiled a little, it was strained and fell apart after only a moment, “I’ll keep an eye on things here.”

“I know you will,” Jean said, summoning the strap of her bag to the hand not cupping Scott’s face. She gripped it tightly, her knuckles going white and the stiff edges of the webbed nylon dug into her palms. She had to leave.

“I’ll walk down with you.” It wasn’t an offer or request, but Jean didn’t mind. Any excuse to stay in a bubble of normalcy a little longer.

They held hands as they walked down the halls and to the elevator. Scott kept his mind open, letting her flit over it at her leisure. She barely brushed over the surface, but it was a nice gesture, she thought.

They finally reached the hangar and stopped. Mystique and Ororo were both waiting for her, along with the Professor and Erik. Jean felt a spike of anxiety, but she wasn’t sure if it came from her or not.

“I guess this is it,” Scott said quietly. He looked so torn; Jean wanted to soothe him, but she didn’t know how. They were still too new to each other.

“It’ll be okay,” Jean promised, voice soft, “We’ll come back, and then we’ll all go get Wanda.”

It was hard to tell if Scott was looking at her, but he nodded. Jean let out a sigh and raised herself onto her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, “I’ll see you when we get back,” she said. Jean had to hold back a smile at the light pink dusting that spread across Scott’s cheeks.

“I’ll see you,” he said, shuffling around like he wanted to hug her, but was too insecure to do it in front of other people. Jean shook her head and embraced him tightly.

The embrace lasted longer than Jean had thought it would, both of them reluctant to let go, but finally they had to move away as Mystique called her over. The disentangled from one another with a final goodbye, and Jean went to join the other women.

It was time for her to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly never cared for Jean/Scott that much, I never knew it that well since I got into comics only a few years ago. Even after looking it up and knowing the story lines, I never thought they had much chemistry outside the 'obvious heterosexual couple' trope. Still, it's an important part of their history, so I want to include it a little.


End file.
